


Il Piccolo Vampiro

by Spectra



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: But they aren't excessive, Father and Son, Gen, Half-Vampire dynamics, Halloween, Irondad, Monster Avengers, Mystery based plot, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Osborn - Freeform, Possibly incorrect Italian, Protective Tony Stark, There are vampires after all so, Vampire Tony Stark, Were-Creatures, there will be blood - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-07-18 10:35:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16116629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spectra/pseuds/Spectra
Summary: The Willard library was infamous across the Queens borough. Everybody within ten miles knew to stay away from it- A haunted, Gothic styled building that never seemed to quite fit in, its ominous hallways filled with dust and long forgotten secrets... But Peter had never believed in the supernatural-So what better place to study for the Midtown entrance exam?Little does he know, this questionable studying decision is about to loop him into the dangerous world of Myths and Monsters, eventually unveiling one of the Avenger's best kept secrets...Young Peter has to question what it means to be human, these next few months forcing him to navigate life threatening, uncharted waters. And his only guide and mentor? A newly immortal, snarky and morally questionable billionaire who may or may not have an agenda of his own. What exactly does Tony want from him? And why is he so interested in the Willard library...?





	1. Night

**Author's Note:**

> Was supposed to be a Halloween fic, but I never release on time, so here we are
> 
>    
> Started a new tumblr on 12/13/18 (it's nothing fancy and is essentially empty, but I do my best to reply)
> 
> Find me at: iridescent-spectra  
> -

Nobody went to the Willard library.

Not willingly, at least. Some locals would claim it was some kind of dark, sinister force that would compel passerby to enter, those unlucky few emerging hours later with vacant and glassy expressions. Haunted, they’d say. Cursed. The building’s gothic exterior seemed untouched by the city life, the foggy stained glass windows inciting tales of formless shadows and inhuman faces that would watch you as you walked by.

It was an anomaly in the otherwise futuristic and sleek streets of New York. Even the rougher patches of town were incomparable to its specific brand of dilapidation. Thick, black vines of ivy matted and crept up the walls. Weeds fought for every patch of bleak sunlight. If it had been bordered by a lawn instead of cracked pavement, the grass would have been a yard high.

It had always had a reputation as far as locals were concerned. None could remember exactly when it had been built, or how long it had been standing, merely that the street corner where it was situated was always a route that they had avoided when they walked home.

Peter had heard these stories firsthand. He was a local too, after all. Middle school was awash in social dramas and creepy tales regarding the nearby abandoned buildings and vacant shipyards. Willard just naturally fell into the mix of rumors.

But there was a big difference between rumors and reality. A _big_ difference.

Peter would know, having always been swarmed by rumors. From a young age he'd always been a little too detached from the other kids to be normal. Shadows had gradually smudged under his eyes from too much studying, and he had a lithe and lean figure that was just a little too tall, a little too skinny. His dark chestnut hair made his skin look pale, and sometimes when he looked in the mirror it was like a ghost would be looking back.

But he'd seen more of the world than most. So if he was a little awkward, it was his circumstances that made it so.

Maybe it was the plethora of nasty gossip that had made the tales surrounding Willard all the more unlikely. Middle schoolers tended to exaggerate, and superpowers were explainable by sound science. Abilities didn't automatically deem someone a monster, and superheroes were a far cry from things that go bump in the night.

So Peter wasn't scared of Willard.

He would pass through the library's block late at night as a shortcut. He'd spotted the head librarian just a handful of times on these occasions, a short and stocky woman with a crooked nose and pinched smile. She usually wore a weathered, patternless shawl draped across her drooping shoulders, her dark olive skin peeking through the threadbare corners. Ordinary, sweet.

She didn't _look_ like she kidnapped lost kids and ate them. That's what Peter's middle school believed, anyway. No, to him she seemed wholly different than the frightening caricature people described, and remarkably good natured as well. She returned his friendly waves when she locked up the library and went home, the skin crinkling around her eyes.

It was these small gestures that encouraged Peter to recommend it as a study place to Ned.

Which was no easy task, honestly. Years of avoiding the place had created a deep rooted fear in his best friend. You didn't just _waltz_ into Willard, the same way you didn't steal a police car or strip naked in the middle of Times Square.

But Peter was both persistent and sincere. He'd won Ned over in the end. Several months later, they’d established themselves as the library’s first and potentially _only_ regulars.

Maybe it was all coincidence. Willard had simply been convenient, after all.

-

They’d braved the stormy weather to go that day, practically running through the front doors with their sweatshirts draped over their heads to protect them from the worst of the rain. The head librarian smiled as they entered, accepting their apologies for the puddles they had made on the hardwood with a gracious incline of her petite head.

Peter waved back gratefully.

It was night. Rain pattered against the panes of old, tinted glass, the street lights outside illuminating the table where Peter and Ned had settled down to study. The sun had long since gone down, their eyes adjusting to the dark as the lamps outside painted faint lines across their textbooks and shimmering streaks across the wet pavement outside. 

Thunder rumbled loudly, and Peter hissed as one of the book pages sliced through the pad of his thumb.

“You alright?” Ned asked, eyes fixed on his notes. He had barely looked up since they’d started, his desire to make it into the Midtown School of Science with a full scholarship just as potent as Peter’s. It was why they’d hunted for a good study hangout to begin with, the need for absolute concentration paramount.

“Fine.” Peter assured, eyeing the bead of blood that pooled at the edge of the cut. He popped it in his mouth, pressing his tongue against it as he finished turning the page. He felt silly for having been startled.

After the first few weeks he’d gotten used to the creepy vibe of the overall library, but he still got jumpy from time to time. Usually it was when conditions were at their most ominous. Generally that was when he went to Willard alone, or when it was dark at night, the shadows breeding a dangerous sense of melancholy that made it easier to imagine things.

Neither of them minded the spooky atmosphere, though. It paled on comparison to the stakes. There were five full ride scholarships available. Just five.

Five out of hundreds of applicants, hundreds of other kids who were probably just as underprivileged as them, hoping that this school would give them the momentum they needed to get out and craft a real life for themselves; to leave the city streets and actually do something with their lives. 

There was no way Peter was going to let himself miss this opportunity, 'haunted' library be damned. Neither would Ned.

Hours passed, pages turned, and the smudges under Peter's eyes got a little darker. The rain refused to relent, the glass windows shivering against the gale.

At some point in the night, exhaustion finally weighed on them both.

“I think we should call it quits for tonight.” Ned groaned, rubbing small circles around his temple. He looked thoroughly spent. “I don’t think I can memorize one more sentence without my head imploding, and the rain keeps getting heavier.”

Peter hummed in agreement from around his thumb, still messing with the cut. As much as he hated to admit it, he was on the brink of a headache too. He was pretty confident about the content they’d reviewed thus far, even going so far as to help Ned out with the last chapter. No reason for them to both suffer any longer.

He was tired. So _irrefutably_ tired. He massaged his sore eyes with thick fingers.

Reluctantly, joyfully, he shut his loaned textbook. A sigh of relief came from Ned as they started packing up their study materials.

The library was completely empty, the lights having been further dimmed by the owner a while earlier as she left for the night. She’d done little more than wish them goodbye as she’d gone, a pleased smile on her face.

Peter and Ned easily navigated the dark labyrinth of the shelves, chatting idly as they climbed down the spiral staircase. They’d long since grown used to the creaks and groans of the floorboards, their voices harmonizing with the shrill shrieks of the old wood. The shadows held fewer secrets now that they were regular visitors.

Another night of studying done. Peter shuffled the texts balanced in his hand as Ned excitedly described his latest Lego project. Normally he'd be just as invested, but he could only see numbers and formulas floating in his mind's eye.

But the weight of the books felt wrong. He’d been just about to switch off the main lights, but he paused. “Wait, one sec-”

He surveyed the bundle of books he was hauling. Once. Twice. He groaned as his suspicions were confirmed. “I left one of my textbooks on the desk.” Figured. It’d probably fallen off the table at some point. He saw Ned move as though to follow him back up, but he quickly waved him off, “Go ahead without me, I’ve already missed curfew anyway.”

“You sure? I'll wait.” Ned said. He had to be just as tired, but the offer was sincere.

Peter nodded. It was unspoken, but they both knew; Ned had worried parents to go home to-

He didn’t.

“I’ll catch up with you tomorrow or something.” Peter gave a small smile, “Same time?”

They managed a small fist bump, and Ned grinned. “Okay dude, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He handed him the library key before he backed through the front doorway, giving one last small wave before disappearing into the illuminated city streets.

Sighing, Peter set the bundle of textbooks down on the empty front desk with a dull thunk. He’d be coughing up dust bunnies for months after all of this was over. Though Willard did have a certain charm to it, even if it was gloomy and unsettling. Straight out of a horror movie or a book on the macabre. 

He wondered what he'd ever done to deserve Ned as friend. He couldn't think of _one_ other person who'd have willingly walked into this place.

Jogging back up the staircase, Peter wove his way back to the desk, spotting the lost textbook fallen just beneath his chair. He tucked it underneath his arm after flipping through the pages to ensure all of his notes were still in place. Still there, and still unfinished regarding the most recent chapter. But if he pulled another all-nighter to finish them his teachers at school would be livid.

Certain everything was accounted for, Peter bit his lip as he regarded the staircase. It was true he had already missed his curfew, and he weighed the benefits of going back sooner rather than later.

He wasn’t in any rush to go back to Stockwell. And it wasn’t the fault of the orphanage, perse, it just felt… empty. Not the quiet kind of empty, either. It felt like every time he walked in through the front doors, he was reminded of why he was there. Of what he was. He left every opportunity he had, prolonging his inevitable return each night. Picking up a million extra curricular activities, wandering around the neighborhood streets-

Right. What was an extra half hour, anyway? Maybe he’d wait until the rain stopped.

Decided, he made his way back into the maze of shelves, straightening and fixing some of the misplaced texts. Running a finger across the shelf rim, it came back entrenched in dust and grime. A part of him wondered if the place was so dirty because the owner was old and couldn’t clean it herself, or was simply unable to afford a cleaner.

A short, whining creak broke out against the silence. 

Peter stopped, his fingers still hovering above the ratty book spines, head perking up against the noise. That… hadn’t come from him. He tried to crush the feeling of fear that crept up his stomach, convincing himself that he was putting too much thought into the noise. Old buildings creaked. That’s what they did.

It sounded again, louder. 

It was coming from below. It sounded too heavy for the building to simply be settling, too. But the library was supposed to be empty. His eyes flicked up to the grandfather clock that loomed in one of the corners, squinting to read the faded gold dial in the dim light. 12:33 am. Not even the streets would be heavily crowded. The owner had left hours ago, too. He’d _watched_ her go.

A louder, longer creak shrieked with renewed force against the patter of rain. 

The stories and rumors of ghosts sped to the forefront of Peter’s mind, and he fought to keep the icy thread of fear from blossoming in his chest. Instead of panicking, he crept closer to the handrailing, peering over the edge to see the floor below.

Most of it was cast in shadow, but his heart leapt to his throat when his fears were realized.

Three tall and broad silhouettes were moving near the back entrance, their bodies balancing something large and dark between them. Sharp, hushed whispers were being shot in the quiet, and Peter strained to listen, breath catching in his throat.

They must have managed to break the lock that kept the backdoor closed. It led to a faintly lit alleyway outside, riddled in graffiti and trash. Were they delinquents? But no, not yet. Most young adults waited until Halloween's infamous Mischief Night to wreak senseless havoc, and that was several months off. It was more likely then… Robbers?

But why Willard? Who went to a library to steal? The only thing Peter could think of was if the owner kept rare or valuable manuscripts, but he’d never seen anything like that, and a crime like that was more high profile. Surely they wouldn’t have just busted through the back door in case there was an alarm. When he thought of book heists he imagined cat burglars and men busting through windows in suits.

His first thought was to get out. A normal person would call the police to report the break-in, but Peter didn’t have a phone. And the intruders were blocking the only exit.

 _Oh my god_ , He thought suddenly, _I’m screwed._

He scanned his surroundings frantically, heart pounding. Peter Parker, fourteen year old orphan killed in a robbery gone bad. He’d already become the talk of the neighborhood, both him and Ned considered to have a kind of metaphorical reaper’s scythe nestled across their necks the moment they had willingly set foot inside of Willard. If he died they’d probably consider it to be universal karma at work.

His panic rapidly broadened. _Shit, shit, shit-_ He could hide, that was an option, but where? They wouldn’t know he was here yet, so as long as he tucked himself away and didn’t make any noise...

The upper hallways were dark and dusty, but aside from the bookshelves and errant desks scattered across the creaky flooring, there wasn’t anywhere to crawl into or hide behind. The lights from outside were scattered through the window across the floors, ruining the larger shadows he could have hidden in.

The voices evolved into murmurs, just loud enough that Peter could hear them above the pounding rain.

“Fuck- be careful, you’re going to wake him up!”

“Dammit,” The other cursed hotly, “We’re here now. Just fucking finish the job- that serum shit isn’t going to last for much longer, hurry up and kill him before-”

The intruders continued arguing, nearby thunder covering up their next few words. Curiosity had Peter craning his head just over the lip of the stairway to look at the men again, fear momentarily forgotten as he frowned, contemplating those words. Wake who up? Kill who?

This time, his stomach hit the floor.

There, held like a ragdoll between the three other intruders, was an unconscious, sharply dressed man, their head lolled into shadow. They were dragging him across the floor, into the center of the room. The man didn’t stir even as they dropped him, limp and disturbingly lifeless. The visible side of their face and most of their shirt was covered in a dark, rusty red. _Blood?_

Peter slapped his hand over his mouth to keep from making a noise as he watched. He backed away from the railing, lowering to a crouch. He was trapped in an empty haunted library in the middle of the night, with no phone or viable escape route, with three murderers.

Thank god Ned wasn’t here.

His fist clenched tightly around the book he was holding. _Ok Peter, you’re all alone, no backup, and there’s a bunch of men about to kill someone right in front of you- what do you do?_ He couldn’t just let them murder someone in the middle of the library, right smack in front of him. He had to distract them somehow, lure them away from the man. They’d said he might wake up soon, so if he bought him some time...

He looked down at the heavy textbook he was holding. 

Yeah. That’d work.

Seizing his courage, or maybe it was actually just pure fear (he couldn’t tell at this point), Peter stood up and lifted the textbook over his head, wildly praying to every god and deity he could currently think of, hurling it with obscene force towards one of the intruders with unusual accuracy. 

The book hit the man dead center with a resounding _thump_ , his head snapping back, body tipping over and tactlessly crashing into the floor. 

It would have been comical in any other context, and Peter let out a nervous exclamation of triumph, but his already weak smile faded instantly when he saw the other two intruder’s eyes zero in on him. Their faces were masks of shock, and there was a brief moment of stunned silence.

“Oops?” He managed, voice breaking.

The next few seconds were a blur of movement. Then men lunged for the stairwell to reach him. Peter bolted towards the back of the room, grabbing some of the heavy chairs and knocking them over as he went.

All sound fizzed out- the only thing Peter could hear was the wild beating of his own heart, surrounded by the scream of terrified white noise. What would they do to him? They would probably shoot him. Did they have guns? Knives?

The universe threw him a curve ball: The answer was _neither._

The first robber to ascend the stairs was holding a giant silver stake over his head, poised and ready to strike with a rabid scowl carved across his face. His figure was deformed in the darkness, the light from outside striking the pointed tip of the silver stake and giving it an icy glare.

 _A silver fucking stake._ The startled shriek that left Peter’s mouth was probably the single most unmanly sound he had ever made. He threw the chair at the robber’s legs using pure adrenaline, tripping him and his partner as he ran across the circular walkway.

They were upstairs. They were blocking the stairway. He had to get out. He had to get out. He-

Peter leaned over the balcony railing, eyes racing back to where the attempted murderers were quickly getting back to their feet. He had no choice. No better option. He looked down at the unconscious victim, unmoving and stained dark red in the center of the first floor. He was angled just perfectly into the center of the carved arcane symbol, blood slotting into the grooves. It was only about fifteen feet down. Fifteen. 

Jump or get stabbed. Jump or get stabbed. Jump or get-

Peter jumped.

He landed feet first, rolling as the momentum carried him forward, crashing into one of the bookshelves. He felt the fracture a millisecond after he heard the muted _crack_ , white hot pain searing up his leg.

“ _Shi-Shit!_ ”

He stifled another wail as he grabbed his leg, tears pricking at his eyes as he crawled over the pile of books that had been knocked loose. He shuffled to the unconscious victim, hands grabbing the lapels of their suit. He couldn’t leave them here, couldn’t just let them bleed out on the floor-

His broken ankle screamed as he dragged them both towards a nearby storage closet with gritted teeth, heart stuttering frantically as he heard the robbers clamber back down the metal stairwell.

The unconscious man was impossibly heavy, Peter’s adrenaline barely enough to let him drag him across the floor a few inches at a time. The two intruders were almost on top of them as Peter slammed the storage closet door shut, descending them into immediate darkness. His breathing came in short gasps.

He managed to turn the lock just as they rammed into the door, the knob turning uselessly as they cursed violently outside. Peter fell back as they started to try and kick the door down. For once, he was grateful that the place was so old; the wood was completely solid, and hopefully wouldn’t break easily.

His fear was halted when the figure in his arms groaned, turning slightly. _Oh my god, he’s alive!_ Relief fought its way through the panic. He didn’t want to be alone right now, and the idea of a possible ally was tangible hope. If it came down to fighting, he’d have a better chance if his companion was up and about. 

“Hey.” He tried weakly, “Are you ok?”

He didn’t get a discernible answer, the man’s only response another long groan. His arm went up to meet his forehead though, bloodied knuckles scraping against the nasty looking gash above his brow. It was a small movement, but Peter took it as a sign the man was trying to wake up.

The door continued to shake, and Peter’s mind raced. He’d have a better time of treating wounds if he could actually see. If he remembered correctly, there was a light somewhere above him…

He stood up blindly, hissing as his ankle screeched, both his arms and legs shaking from the adrenaline that was still racing through his veins. He scrambled for a few long seconds, groping the air blindly for the chain attached to the single light bulb that he remembered to be hanging somewhere in the center of the room.

When he finally felt it he was relieved to see it still worked, the room becoming lit in a shadowy, low light. Dust motes floated through the air, and he fought to keep from coughing, each movement sending another wave of dust flying off the shelves. He looked around briefly for a weapon, but all he could find were a few old mops and some buckets. It was evident they hadn’t been used in a while. The only other object in the room were rows and rows of old newspapers and forgotten manuscripts.

When he looked down again, Peter inhaled sharply. 

The man. The guy they had been planning on killing.

_He recognized him._

There, laying on the floor, covered in what was likely his own blood, was Tony Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an actual Willard library that is considered among one of the most haunted libraries in the US- they have ghost cams and claim to have captured several images of 'The Grey Lady', their resident apparition, on multiple occasions.


	2. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I would apologize for my shit posting schedule, but then I'd constantly be saying sorry and the word would lose all meaning. At the very least, my readers should know the guilt keeps me up at night

_Holy shit._

Everything simultaneously both did and didn’t make sense. Tony Stark was the billionaire of all billionaires, having inherited a very powerful company from his father when he was just in his teens, quickly making a name for himself through weapon deals. But then he’d vanished somewhere in Afghanistan just over a decade ago, a supposed POW, returning and eventually becoming a self-made superhero.

A face that everyone recognized, that millions of kids had grown up admiring- Iron Man.

Peter hadn't been any different, watching the scraggly television screen from his latest foster home with avid interest as the man made headlines again and again. He'd have owned every piece of merchandise that had come out if he had been able to afford it- but living on hand me downs and tight gripped handouts for most of his life had denied him all but the most basic of expenses.

And there was always something distinctly familiar about Tony Stark that nagged at Peter's mind, almost like a forgotten memory or distant contact. He'd never quite been able to shake the feeling that he'd met the man before, if only briefly. That statement made him a bigger target for bullying, though, so he'd learned to keep his mouth shut. Him, knowing Tony Stark? Not possible.

So several bad guys were attempting to kill a well known superhero. Okay... That kinda made sense.

He'd watched more than one ill tempered villain make an attempt at the celebrity's life, some of them even live on television. But this was a far cry from the usual lineup. Why the hell were they doing it with a silver stake? And why wasn’t Stark fighting them in his usual armor? It would’ve taken a lot more than silver to get through the titanium-

But the details didn’t matter, Peter realized. Whatever circumstances that led up to the icon laying in the supply closet of one of the most haunted libraries in the New York state was probably too complex for him to figure out at that moment. He needed to focus on helping him first.

He dropped back down to his knees, holding up Stark’s head and resting it on his lap. Again the familiarity of the man's face sent an annoying prickle through the back of his head, but he shook it off. Focus. He had to focus. He had no idea how to provide serious first aid- but the second his hands touched the man’s bare skin, he recoiled.

_He felt ice cold._

Fingers trembling, Peter’s hands found their way to the man’s neck, struggling to find a pulse. His confusion grew as he felt it, slow and steady beneath the skin. He wasn’t dead. Relief wormed its way in amidst the panic.

“Hey… Mr. Stark, sir?” He tried, shaking the man slightly. He fought the urge to aggressively jostle him, demanding he wake up before the door was busted down and they became human kebabs, but he was quickly reaching that point.

He didn’t get a response, not even another groan as the man’s head lolled sideways, still lifeless. Peter bit his lip, contemplating how medically effective it was to slap someone to forcibly wake them- concussion or not, but the lack of noise drew his attention back to the door.

It had grown quiet. The violent banging had ceased, the surroundings suddenly cast in terrifying quiet. Had they left? Gone to get tools to break the door down? Either option did not bode well.

The horrific pain in his ankle was throbbing, and he fought to keep the tears from getting loose. It was definitely broken. It was difficult to move his foot, and each sliver of movement sent another shockwave of pain racing up his leg.

The cut on his thumb had started bleeding again also, but he hardly paid attention to it as he picked up the man’s head again, halfheartedly shaking him, praying that he would wake up. He _really_ didn't want to have to slap him.

“Mr. Stark sir, I really need your help if we’re going to get out of this.” He pleaded. His voice lowered to a whisper, as though the murderers outside were trying to listen in, his voice scarily loud in the quiet confines of the closet. Not knowing what was happening outside was starting to scare him more than their efforts to bust down the door.

As he spoke, his cut thumb left a small, bloody streak across Stark's face, bright red against his pale skin.

Stark's eyes shot open, nostrils flaring. As fast as lightning his hand seized Peter’s wrist, tight and painful. He wrenched it away from him, eyes flashing.

The violent, unexpected reaction had Peter rearing backwards, his wrist captured in an unbreakable grip. For a brief, terrifying second, the man’s eyes held a fiery red glint in them, like they were glowing.

Peter’s whole body started shaking. He wondered if Stark could feel it beneath his steeled fingers. “Excuse me...Sir? Are you alright?” His eyes were misty. If their lives weren’t in danger he would have been mortified to be this close to crying in front of his childhood icon.

Everything felt unreal. Was this actually happening?

Feeling medically responsible, Peter did a quick assessment of injuries. There was blood trickling down that nasty looking gash on Stark’s forehead, hair a rampant mess around his head. His trademark goatee looked clean cut, like it always did on both TV and on magazines, the only real difference the blood staining his skin and suit. The head wound was probably what knocked him out, he'd wager, but there was no telling if he was seriously injured elsewhere.

It took a long few seconds for Tony to answer, his body jerking to an upright position. His eyes darted around the room until they came back to rest on the frightened form of Peter, and he released him abruptly.

The man seemed to immediately collect himself, as though being covered in blood and hiding in storage closets should be the most natural and expected thing in the world. “Sorry if I scared you kid.” Tony said, voice rough. His posture straightened, more likely on reflex than conscious effort. If Peter had learned anything by watching the man over the years, it was that businessman who weren't predators often got eaten by the sharks.

Overshadowed only by the realization that he was meeting Tony Stark in a run down storage closet, Peter’s mind suddenly blanked. How did he even start to explain anything? What the heck was he supposed to say? “No, it’s fine- I- there were- I think that, but I’m not sure- they had a-” He babbled. _English, what the hell is English-_

“Don’t strain yourself.” Tony interjected. His face was serious, but there was an amused tilt teasing the tight line of his mouth. “Take a deep breath. Can you tell me what street we’re on?” 

That was easy to answer. Peter could do that. He rattled it off, quickly snapping his mouth shut before something embarrassing managed to slip past his already questionable filter. 

Tony nodded at the name, muttering under his breath. "Queens, huh? At least they didn't take me far-"

For a wild moment Peter considered pinching himself to determine if he was dreaming or had thoroughly lost his mind due to excessive studying. There was something significantly more real about the situation now that the billionaire was awake and talking. Tony frigging Stark was sitting right across from him in a goddamn _supply closet_ , for god’s sake. A thoughtless shift in positions, caused by both excitement and nerves, sent another lance of agony shooting up his ankle and he hissed.

Tony had started to stand up, but stopped when he heard Peter cry out, his eyes zeroing in on his ankle, which was starting to rapidly swell. Letting out a sympathetic huff, he dropped down to his haunches again. He turned his head, inspecting it more carefully, though he didn't try to move it. “That's definitely broken. How’d you manage that?”

“Jumped from the second floor.”

A flash of guilt seemed to flash across the man’s face, but it was quickly masked. “Could've been a lot worse. Still not the best of ideas though, huh?”

The image of the attempted murderer holding the long silver stake replayed in Peter’s head even as he managed to smile at the lighthearted tease. “Yeah.”

“Hang tight for a minute.” Shucking off his jacket, Tony's eyes scanned the room once more, assessing their situation. The white shirt underneath his outer coat was splattered with more of the maroon stains, some of them still noticeably wet. It sent another wave of fear down Peter’s spine, though he suddenly realized that despite the blood stains, there weren’t any rips or holes in the fabric. But if the majority of the blood wasn’t coming from any of his own injuries, why was he covered in it? He was so lost in thought he nearly missed the superhero’s following question. “There's a reasonably good chance you already know me-" Tony continued, giving an accepting nod when Peter's brows lifted in affirmation, "But what can I call you, kid?”

He paused for only a second. “Peter.”

And if it weren’t for the gut wrenching fear and blinding hot pain in his ankle, Peter would have absolutely sworn he saw a glint of sudden recognition flicker in Tony’s eyes. Almost like something had clicked and fell into place.

Something subtly shifted in the man’s stance, and his gaze seemed to sharpen. “What are you doing out this late, Peter?” There was an incredulous air of accusation to his voice.

Peter blinked, momentarily stunned. “Studying.” The explanation sounded incredibly lame, and he could practically _feel_ Stark's crisp judgement. Not that it was fair- it was probably a far more normal excuse than any of the reasons the billionaire had for being effectively kidnapped and dragged into a closed library. “If I had known men with stakes were going to break in, I would have left earlier.” He defended adamantly.

He hadn't meant to sound so contrary, and Peter panicked at his tone. Tony didn't seem to mind it though, and amusement flashed across the his face before he released a heavy breath. “Studying. Hm.” He started rummaging around the storage closet, rustling through the papers. He lifted up one of the stray folders, scanning its contents. “So we’re in a library, then? Figures. All throughout college I kept saying books would be the death of me but this takes it to a whole new level-”

“The Willard library.”

Tony’s head shot up. “Willard?”

The reaction had Peter blinking in confusion for what seemed the millionth time. “Do you know it?” The library’s reputation had been mostly local, it was odd that anyone outside of the borough had heard its name. Much less a high riding celebrity.

A foul expression crossed the man's face. “Thought I recognized that musty smell. It has a bit of a reputation.” He didn’t explain further, extending a hand for Peter to take. “Can you stand?”

 _No, probably not._ “I’ll try.” Peter said hesitantly. In truth, if he put weight on his ankle one more time he might black out. The thought of biffing it in front of Iron Man was enough to make him want to cry, but he violently shoved that feeling down too. Passing out was bad enough, but the thought of passing out _while_ crying was downright awful.

He took Tony’s hand, flinching inwardly when he again felt how ice cold his skin was. Part of him was worried just how badly the man needed medical attention if his body temperature had dropped that low, but he put that thought on a backburner as he struggled to get upright without jostling his ankle. He tried not to lean heavily on him, but the moment he put the faintest of pressure on his ankle, his vision went white and he dropped his full weight on the man's arm, stumbling forward.

Tony didn’t seem to mind, picking up the extra weight with ease and giving an encouraging grin. “Hang in there Bambi, you’re doing great.” If he noticed the wet sheen starting to gather around Peter’s eyes, he didn’t say anything, instead wrapping his arm across his shoulder. “Got it?”

“Got it.” Peter nodded, feeling faint. Up close he could smell the metallic odor of blood, mixing with the man's assuredly expensive cologne. He eyed the peeling paint of the closet door with sudden fear, his voice lowering. “Mr. Stark... You’re not- but- aren’t they still out there?” He didn’t really want to argue, but the mental image of the stake was seared into his brain. 

Despite being a product of the system, he wasn't a fighter, and the thought of putting the superhero in danger due to his own shortcomings had his heart doing backflips.

“Tony." He corrected lightly, though he didn't seem overly attached at either one, "And we can’t stay in here forever." He paused, adjusting Peter's weight so that it was more securely reinforced against him before he tried to lighten the mood. "There’s already a thick layer of dust already coating my insides anyway, and I think I can smell black mold growing in one of those corners- ” The easy smile plastered on his face looked suspiciously practiced, and it was doing nothing to ease the pit settling in Peter's stomach as he was effectively hauled to the doorframe.

“We can wait until it’s day.” Peter tried weakly, mind reeling over the idea that Tony Stark was trying to equate dust and a little mold with the stake wielding murderers likely lurking outside. His own voice went dry, breaking over a few syllables. “The mold isn’t trying to _stab us_ , either.”

But Tony only shook his head, teeth grit. “Don’t have that long.” He turned to face him, his eyes holding a tint of that same unusual red spark from earlier. “Here’s the plan. I open the door and lean you up against the closest shelf. You hang there, and _stay put_ , until I take care of our friends, capiche?”

“You’re going to take them both on alone?” Peter couldn’t help but look at the blood covering the man’s clothes, some of the newer splatters rubbing off on his own sweatshirt. Again it hit him how useless he would be in a fight.

“You watch the news, kid?” A smirk lifted the corner of Tony's mouth, matching some of the snapshots he'd seen on magazines. “I’ve taken down a lot bigger. A pair of clueless morons who melted down their grandmother’s silverware are cheap change.” He noticed how Peter was staring at the blood covering him, and his smirk turned into a more genuine expression. "I'll pay for the dry cleaning." He added, nodding his head towards Peter's sweatshirt, which was rapidly being ruined.

The incredulous head shake that Peter gave was hard enough to jostle them both. "No-! That's not what I- This thing has already had like, at least six owners-"

"Gross. I'll get you a new one then."

 _But we may not live long enough for you to do that_ , Peter wanted to argue, feeling a little hysteric. He nodded anyway, something telling him that Iron Man was the one with experience and not him, so he should keep quiet and go along. Potentially get a new sweatshirt. _For them to bury me in_ , his mind supplied. His heart pounded wildly against his chest, the rising fear making it beat so strong that he would swear he could hear each beat thumping against his ribs.

As though he could hear it too, Tony looked down at him. “I’ll have you home before morning, kid, promise.”

Words completely failed him, so Peter resorted to nodding again, fingers knotting into the celebrity’s ruined silk shirt even tighter. The stagnant, dusty air of the supply closet was starting to sound all the sweeter to him, and he felt as though he would gladly brave the threat of black mold if just for a few hours longer if it meant not going back outside.

His whole body stiffened as Tony turned the door handle, his eyes struggling to acclimate to the change of light. 

It was empty. 

Empty and disturbingly silent, the only discernible sound the constant patter of rain from the storm outside. Thunder rumbled distantly, the sound sending a premonitory shudder racing through Peter's spine. No voices, no people. The only sign that anything had ever happened were the splotches of red scattered across the middle floor, staining the room’s center insignia.

“They chickened out, huh?” Tony commented. He sounded casual, but his eyes were sharp and focused, tracing every corner of the room, the arm holding Peter up firm and tense as he held him at an angle, sheltering him between the wall and his torso. The cozy, secure feel of the towering bookshelves was suddenly claustrophobic, the welcoming darkness of the shadows now a potential home for danger.

Something was off- missing. It took several seconds for Peter to put his finger on it, each step clouding his thoughts with a streak of pain. That’s when it hit him. “There was a third one.” Peter said, his voice sounding unbearably loud. “Just over there. They were knocked out.” He looked around the room, confirming his suspicion. None of the red marks littered across the floor had streaks across them, which meant they had gotten up and walked on their own.

Tony must have reached the same conclusion, because he shuffled Peter over to one of the surrounding bookcases, leaning him against it. The wood creaked in protest. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.” 

Something in Peter's stomach told him that was an absolutely horrible idea, though he wasn't able to tell if it was because something was actually wrong or he absolutely did _not_ want to be left alone when he was incapable of escaping by himself. He clutched the cool wood of the bookshelf anyway, watching as Tony made towards the center of the room. After a few moments he cursed under his breath.

"Shit." Tony spat, running a terse hand through his hair, "Can't sense anything with that injection still in my system." Another rumble of thunder accented his words, and his eyes trailed to the door.

Peter was about to ask him if they had a chance of leaving on foot when three things happened simultaneously.

A sharp, unexpected noise had Tony’s head twisting to look behind him, a stack of books tilting and falling to the floor with a series of loud bangs that echoed across the room.

At the same time, a door swung silently open at Peter’s far right, a man shooting out of it, a glint of icy silver gleaming from his hands. He recognized him as the man he'd knocked out just earlier- the telltale red mark still high and inflamed on their temple.

There wasn't any time to think. That very same second, Peter launched himself forward, a shout of alarm barely escaping his lips as he threw himself between the weapon and Tony, his eyes wide and the agony in his ankle blacking out most of his vision. Reaching out wildly, he managed to grab the man's wrist, yanking it away from Tony and towards him instead.

As it was, he didn’t even see the stake enter his body, didn’t know that it became _a part of him_ until his ankle gave out, his body crumpling to the floor as a wet, sickening shock wracked through him. His chest suddenly felt heavy, a weight that sent an unfamiliar screech of pain across his skin.

He heard a vicious, animalistic snarl erupt above him, a terrifying sound that didn't register in his head.

Everything blurred as Peter fell to his side, his hands fumbling to meet his chest, knocking against the foreign object lodged in his sternum. His eyes widened when his hands pulled away red and slick. Time started moving in slow motion, his eyes struggling to comprehend what he was looking at.

The man who had attacked them made a startling shriek of pain from behind where Peter had fallen, followed by a dull thunk. Peter didn't have time to process either one of those sounds before a pair of hands made it to either side of his head. He felt his whole body being shifted upwards, sending an echo of pain emanating through his chest.

His eyes made out the horrified face of Stark above him, his lungs refusing to function. He drifted his vision down towards his chest, where the line of silver jutting out from him finally clicked something in his head. _Oh my god. I was stabbed-_ The realization sent another shudder of panic racing up his spine, his eyes searching Tony's for some kind of explanation, for some kind of reassurance.

It wasn't there.

It hit Peter that if he really was dreaming, he’d likely wake up any second now, his face sticking to one of the study tables upstairs as the head librarian stirred him awake, fussing over how late he must have stayed up. The thought sent a hysterical chuckle ripping out of his mouth, his head getting even more dizzy at the movement. Tony's face started going blurry, a weak tremble starting to shake through his limbs. Any moment now. Any moment-

Black started to spot around the edges of his vision until they covered it entirely.

\------------

 

_Fuck._

Tony had made a lot of mistakes in his life. A lot of them revolved around the decisions he’d made in the weapons industry, his own inventions costing the lives of thousands of innocents. But he’d made a lot of personal ones too. Pepper had been one of them. He’d never live that one down. And it seemed that his mistakes always hurt others the most. Never him, no matter how much he may have wished for it. Death never seemed to knock on his door, and now it seemed likely it never would.

It was as if the universe was trying to sear that knowledge into his brain. The kid, _Peter_ , his mind screamed, was now lying limp in his lap, his blood pooling in dark red rivers across the worn, black wooded floors of the fucking Willard library. _Willard_ , of all places. A library from hell, with ancient floors that thirsted for the blood of people like Peter.

Another innocent, about to pay the ultimate price. From another one of Tony's mistakes.

He hadn’t sensed the third one. The anti-serum they’d injected him with was still pumping through his system, fucking with his senses. He hadn’t been paying proper attention until it was too late, the preteen practically throwing himself in front of the stake that had been meant for _him_ , in every sense of the word. He should have never left his side, should have picked him up and carried him out the front door. Or left him in the closet, even. He should have made him lock the door after him- 

The kid’s eyes had gone glassy, awareness dribbling away with each weak, pulsing beat of his failing heart, the stake still firmly embedded in his chest. Dying.

Rage was starting to blossom in Tony’s torso, his teeth aching with barely withheld fury as the sweet, cloying scent of Peter’s blood assailed his nostrils. The only thing holding him back was the knowledge that the Hunter was already dead, that there was nothing left he could do.

But no. There was.

Yet again, his mind supplied him with the most terrible, most _horrible_ of ideas. 

_I could change him._

Already Tony felt the damning tang of venom swell in his mouth. He stared into Peter’s blank, doe brown eyes, the devastating void of potential loss mixing into the rage. He'd seen the faint recognition light up in the kid's eyes earlier, but hadn't placed the connection himself until he'd told him his name, the word echoing through his skull. _Peter._ He'd met this kid almost a decade ago, on an almost identical night. He couldn't let him die. He could change him, and the wounds would close during the transition. He would live.

Uncertain certainty coiled in a kind of reckless confidence, bordered by the promise of his own damnation. Peter would live, but whether or not Tony would be able to live with the guilt of what he was about to do was still unknown.

Tony gripped the stem of the silver, ignoring how his palm burned against the metal. With a single, sickening tug, he wrenched it out of Peter’s chest. He winced as it brought another splurge of blood with it, his hands already moving to adjust the kid’s head, knowing that he had only a little time left to attempt this.

He remembered very little of his own change, just the cold bite of a thick needle being inserted into his neck, the feeling of liquid fire spreading through his body. The rest was a haze of unbearable pain and lost time, blackout periods that had felt like decades. A desperate part of him hoped that Peter wouldn’t experience any of that since his would be more natural, but the hope was faint.

Tony closed his eyes, fingers tightening into Peter’s blood soaked hair. “You’ll never forgive me for this, kid. Good news is that I won’t ask you to.”

Tilting his neck towards him, Tony took in the innocent pallor of Peter's face once more before he breathed in deeply. Without further hesitation he leaned in and bit, hard and clean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still unsure about writing action and violence, very new to this genre- eager for oncoming chapters though


	3. Penthouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explaining to my friends what this fic is about is beyond difficult

The first thing Peter noticed was that everything felt soft.

He made a quiet noise as he stirred, his face sinking several inches deeper into the cloud of comfort he was cocooned in, the sensation of clean warmth compelling him to keep his eyes closed and let sleep carry him off again.

He’d _never_ been this comfortable before, his life thus far a scraggly portrait of threadbare, scratchy blankets and rusted box springs that poked through ancient, worn mattresses. Nothing that even remotely compared to the fluffy heaven he was currently buried in. 

He heard the soft cotton shift as he moved, the noise unusually loud in his ears. His nose scrunched and he tried to bury his face deeper. Five more minutes of this before he had to wake up. Just five. The second he breathed in, a fresh wave of smells assaulted his nose. The smell of clean linens wasn’t unpleasant, but it was _powerful_ , the rush of information achingly potent.

Peter groaned, his eyes clamping together. That sound was harsh, too, echoing in his eardrums and sending another heady ache through his skull. He just wanted to sleep. He’d been studying so hard to get into Midtown, had been avoiding Stockwell like the plague, barely getting a wink of rest. Why couldn’t he have it now?

Studying. Ned.

The pieces blurred together, a spike of clarity chasing away the remnants of confusion.

**Willard.**

Peter’s eyes shot open. It came rushing back, all at once. The library, rain and thunder belting against the windows, the intruders breaking in, Tony Stark in the supply closet covered in blood- _And the stake._ Panic blossomed in Peter’s chest. Blood, so much blood, pouring out of his chest and onto the floor, his vision going completely black-

Sitting up straight, Peter wrestled with the large blankets wrapped around him. He yanked up the hem of his shirt, breath quickening as he inspected the skin.

Smooth. Unmarked, unblemished.

He traced the surface for a few seconds longer, like he would uncover some kind of bump or hidden mark that would verify the stake’s existence. But there was nothing there but clean skin. His brows knit together as he dropped his shirt back into place. Had he imagined it all?

Peter’s head lifted to examine his surroundings, and he felt a jolt of shock when he didn’t recognize _anything._

He was alone. The bed he was laying in was _huge_ , the mere width so long Peter wouldn’t have been able to touch the corners with his fingers if he spread his arms out as far as they could go. The sheets were a crisp white, at least five pillows stacked behind his head, and the comforter was the size of a nimbus cloud. The room was large and dimly lit, a wall to floor panel of black glass mirroring his confused expression to his left. The floor was fragmented with obsidian granite, the white accented furniture scattered throughout the room reflected across it. 

His eyes started to focus and unfocus, his pupils catching on the soft beams of light cast across the room, at the dust motes floating through the air. Peter groaned, the surplus of information hurting his brain. When he looked down he would have sworn he could see the individual cotton threads on the surface of the sheets.

_What the hell?_

Taking a few seconds to collect himself, he tried to look up again, doing his absolute best not to concentrate on the details. It all looked… _Expensive._ He had seen furniture and swanky looking apartments both in magazines and displayed through shop windows in the ritzier parts of town he sometimes haunted, but this was…

Tossing the comforter aside, Peter scooted off the edge of the mattress, fighting the steady threat of panic. He was sunken several inches into the plush material, but he managed to escape, the tile beneath his feet unusually warm. _Heated floors?_

His ankle wasn't hurting when he put weight on it either, the skin clear and healthy, not a single trace of swelling. But it had very clearly been broken, the memory of the pain still fresh. His head started to spin.

Where the hell was he? He needed to find a window.

The thought had him stepping quickly towards the tall glass bordering one side of the sprawling expanse of the room, his hands pressing against the smooth surface. For a few seconds he saw nothing but his own terrified face staring back at him, hair thrown in a soft tangle, eyes wide and red rimmed.

He puzzled over the glass for a moment. Surely it was a window, but it was tinted to the point of being black. A memory resurfaced of Ned talking to him, gushing about how he heard that some windows would tint on command, going from dark to clear in a single touch.

He’d laughed then, but here, surrounded by all kinds of expensive furniture-

He tapped twice on the glass.

The glass went crystal clear, and for the briefest of moments, he saw the cityscape caught in the fading afternoon light. His whole body revolted a millisecond later, the last light of the sunset crashing over him.

" _Shit-_ "

It was like shards of _glass_ were stabbing into his eyes, his skin burning. His head pounded with sudden ferocity, and he practically slammed his palm back against the glass, the blackened tint falling back into place. The shroud of darkness that fell back on him a balm of relief.

Peter clutched his head, stepping wildly backwards until the back of his knees hit the bed and he fell back onto the comforter. The light had _hurt_ him. He sat there for a few moments, struggling to keep his breath steady as he held his head, waiting for the painful pounding to stop. At least he hoped it would stop. In truth the mix of smells, sights, and sounds were short circuiting his brain, and his headache morphed into panic. Standing up, Peter noticed a door on the far right.

A way out. He ran to it. 

He couldn’t panic-

His fingers wrapped around the black chrome of the doorknob, the metal _squishing_ underneath his fingers. With a hard jerk, he attempted to wrench the door open. There was a sharp snap, the doorknob completely _ripping_ out, and his arm whipped backwards as it met with empty air.

With a muted cry, Peter backed up, splinters of wood scattering across the floor. Looking in his hand, his confusion only grew. The object in his hands did not look like a doorknob. It looked like a wadded up piece of paper, only made out of metal.

Was that… Was that the doorknob? He looked between the two. Had he done that? Tore the doorknob straight out of the frame? Had he seriously _just done that?_

Tossing the ruined knob to the floor, Peter fumbled with the inner mechanisms of the door, sticking his finger into the ruined wood and releasing the latch, swinging it open. He stuck his head into the hallway, having enough sense to look both ways before emerging. Empty.

The hallway looked much the same as the room, the dark diamonds of reflective black granite stretching into a circular balcony, a starspun chandelier glittering with mute light in the center. Glass railings encircled the level, allowing Peter to glance at the sprawling room below. It looked to be a common area, modern furniture in crisp white strategically drifted around a living room area that dipped even deeper into the floor. Red accents and maroon, textured pillows were thrown across the furniture, looking similar to splattered drops of crimson blood.

Walking closer to the railing, Peter glimpsed the corner of a chrome kitchen and fully stocked, swanky bar nestled against the far wall, the glass bottles of liquor illuminated from above. Looking at the first level below him, the memory of him jumping from the second level of Willard sent a sickening twist in his gut, and he backed away quickly. 

Where the hell was he? It looked like someone’s home, but he’d never been somewhere this luxurious in his life, had never known anyone with anywhere _near_ enough money to afford a place like this.

Around him were a few other doors and open, offset spaces which he could only assume led to other rooms or sitting areas. Just a few yards away from him there was a small set of floating stairs that led to another elevated stretch. At its end there was a closed, grand looking door, something that Peter could only assume led to a master bedroom. 

For a brief second he entertained the idea of knocking on it to see if anyone was there, but he quickly shut that thought down. He couldn’t shake the scared, mortifying feeling that he somehow didn’t belong, that any moment someone would spot him and demand who he was and why he was there.

He had to find the front door. Sneak out.

Circling around the chandelier, Peter made his way to the stairwell that led to the floor below. No more jumping for him, thank you very much. The stairwell was similar to the one that led to the master bedroom; featuring sleek, floating slabs that jutted out of the wall. The only difference was that this one curled in on itself, a beam of black chrome snaking into a loose spiral. From a distance, the steps looked like spinning piano keys.

Peter rapidly descended, uncaring if he tripped. There still weren’t any windows, and a terrified part of him questioned if he was still in New York despite having seen the skyline earlier.

Reaching the bottom, it wasn’t apparent where the front door was. Swiveling his head, Peter scanned every corner of the luxurious common space. Another wave of smells hit his nose, and he quickly covered it with his hand. Even from the other side of the room, he would swear he could smell the acidic, potent musk of the liquor, the clean powder of the cotton couch, the hard smell of metal. 

Head swimming, he noticed an elevator just across from the pristine counters of the kitchen, and he ran over. He jammed his finger on the descent button, flinching when the glass cracked, the sound echoing through his skull.

It didn’t light up.

He tried again, pressing over and over again with rising panic.

 _“It’s good to see you’re finally awake, Mr. Parker.”_ A voice called out.

Peter started, the decidedly feminine voice unbearably loud in his ears. He covered them with his hands. He twisted around, eyes darting across the room as he tried to pinpoint who had spoken. “I’m sorry,” He began, voice barely above a desperate whisper, “I don’t know where I am, I just woke up here, I’ll leave right now I promise-”

 _“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Parker,”_ The voice replied gently. The volume of her tone had lowered significantly, enough that Peter was able to uncover his ears to listen, _“You’re right where you’re supposed to be.”_ A pause, and then, _“I’ve let Boss know you’ve finally woken. Please try to relax.”_

Relax? Peter hadn’t noticed his breathing had devolved into long, drawn out gasps, his heart beating wildly. He had no idea who ‘Boss’ was, and he really didn’t want to find out. “Can I leave?” He asked, eyes still searching for the bodiless speaker.

 _“No,”_ The voice said simply, thought not unkindly. She sounded amused, like his question was silly. _“Everything will be explained in just a few minutes. Please try to steady your breathing in the meantime.”_

Peter shook his head, the smells and sounds becoming too much to bear. He put his hands back over his ears, pressing them tightly against his skull so he could block everything out. To his horror, he thought he could hear the faint rush of blood moving in the palm of his hand, the rising beat of his heart setting a steady, panicked rhythm.

Without the elevator, he had no idea where else to go. Spinning back around, he made to bolt back to the room he’d woken up in, intending to barricade the door behind him. 

He’d only ran a few steps before he crashed into something hard, warm, and solid. A strangely familiar aroma of clean musk, aftershave, and expensive linen permeated his nostrils as two firm hands cuffed both of his arms, locking him into place.

He struggled on reflex, but the person holding him didn’t even budge, their hold like steel. He stopped only when a voice he recognized crashed over him, firm and admonishing.

“You’re _alright_ , Peter. Calm down. Deep breaths.”

Momentarily derailed, Peter looked up, eyes widening as his breath caught in his throat. 

Tony Stark. 

The man looked entirely different than before. The gash on his forehead was gone, his hair back to its tastefully ruffled state. He was wearing an ACDC shirt and casual sweatpants, the only visible sign on stress the deepened circles underneath his eyes as he gazed down at him with a worried frown. 

“I’ve got you kid, deep breaths.” Tony continued. His grip loosened, though he didn’t completely let go. He kept eye contact, the warm, red brown of his eyes inspecting Peter with purpose. “Anything hurt?”

The words didn’t really compute, but Peter shook his head mutely. No, no, nothing hurt, it was just that nothing made sense- he didn’t know where he was, why he was there, what day or time it was, what the hell had happened at Willard, if he had actually gotten _stabbed_ or not-

“One thing at a time, Pete.” Tony started pulling him towards the long, white couch nestled in the center of the room. His hands steady on his shoulders, similar to how he had directed him in Willard the night before.

“I- Mr. Stark I can’t remember what happened or why I’m here-”

“I know you can’t. That’s why I’m going to fill in the blanks.” He motioned to the couch he’d steered him towards. “Sit- before you pass out.”

There was a small standoff between them as Peter stared at him with a lost expression. He didn’t want to sit, he wanted answers. A wild part of him wanted to apologize and bolt past him, mortified that he was once again meeting his idol wearing nothing more than nightclothes, his hair a crazed mess. That and _oh my god, he’d bled all over him too-_

“I’d rather not drag you all the way up the stairs again.” Tony supplied simply, noticing how Peter had started to sway again.

Reluctantly, Peter sat, audibly swallowing. “Did all of that actually happen-” He had to crane his neck to follow Tony’s retreating form, which was heading towards the chrome kitchen with purpose. Embarrassment beat through him, and he contemplated the elevator door again. He wondered if the superhero would actually try and stop him from leaving if he tried to push through.

Tony nodded, watching closely as Peter grabbed one of the red pillows, his fingers clutching it like a lifeline. He looked like he was about ready to bolt. “It did. The head librarian sent me a bill not seven hours later to pay for the damages.” He frowned as he added under his breath, “Doesn’t miss anything, does she?”

Peter started to stand up, the pillow dropping to the floor, forgotten. Seven hours? He remembered how he’d seen the sunset just a few minutes earlier through the window and his panic mounted. “Have I been asleep _all day?_ ” Everyone back at Stockwell would be wondering where he was, Ned would be worried-

“Sit.” Tony pressed, sending him a stern glance. He waited until Peter had hesitantly sat back down before he started moving again. There was the clinking of glasses as he pulled something out of a container just adjacent to the fridge and started pouring it. “You’ve been out for four days. Had me worried for a while there.”

At those words, Peter jumped completely out of his seat. His panic started to come back in full force. Stockwell would have notified the police by now, _Ned_ would have notified the police by now. “ _Four days?_ Mr. Stark, sir, I have to leave, I have to get back-” 

He didn’t make it a few feet before Tony was standing in front of him again, blocking the exit. “I said _sit._ ” His tone was harsher, but when Peter refused to move he simply rolled his eyes, catching him by the shoulder and placing him back on the couch with a small push. In his one hand he held a tall glass, filled halfway with what looked like a dark wine. He nudged it towards him. “Drink this, it’ll take the headache away.”

“Mr. Stark, I-”

Tony pushed the glass closer. “Humor me. One sip.” There was an expectant, loaded spark behind his eyes.

There was no arguing the dull pounding in his skull, and there was something persuasive in the pits of Tony Stark’s stare. Peter took the glass, intending to take a quick, cursory sip before running out of the shiny, beyond expensive penthouse and never looking back. The second he put the glass up to his face, however, he briefly paused.

He could smell it. The penthouse came into focus in one startling blur. The soft smell of velvet and threaded cotton, the expensive linen both him and Stark were wrapped in, mixed with the sharp smell of aftershave and the unfamiliar scent of his skin. Overpowering all of it though, was the liquid sitting thick and crimson in the glass just in front of his mouth. 

Sweet. Very, very sweet.

He tipped back the glass, the warm liquid staining his lips and pooling at the back of his throat. He swallowed it greedily, unable to stop until the whole thing was empty. He blinked as he drew back the glass, finding himself craving more. It settled in his stomach, a peculiar warmth tingling across his torso. His headache was indeed starting to fade.

He handed the glass back to Tony’s waiting hand, who was watching him with a relieved, satisfied expression. “What was that?” A thought came over him and his eyes widened again, “That wasn’t wine, was it?” He’d seen some of the older fosters sneak a few bottles of liquor into the houses from time to time, their voices always growing loud and harsh. He’d always stayed far away when they drank, the alcohol always making the bullying worse.

“No,” Tony said airily, “Not wine.” It was deliberately vague. “I may be an alcoholic, but there’s no need for me to drag others down with me.” He gave Peter a meaningful look. “Minors especially.”

Peter shook his head, the scent still hovering across his nose and the taste still potent and unbearably good on his tongue. “Mr. Stark-” He touched the center of his chest, noticing how Tony’s face darkened as he did so, “What happened the other night? Why didn’t you have your armor? I don’t understand who those men were, and shouldn’t I-” He struggled to get the words out, “Shouldn’t I be dead?”

There was a pause so incredibly long and heavy he nearly repeated the question. The look on Tony’s face was damning, the darkening pull on his eyes haunting. He set the empty red glass on the center table, glass clinking against the marble top with a sharp clack. “Yes, you should be.” 

“Then how did-”

Tony’s voice drowned his out, loud and broken, “ _I had to-_ ” He cleared his throat, “I had to… I had to do something that I probably shouldn’t have done. To save you.” His eyes flicked up towards the liquor bar, a tense longing lighting his eyes before he tore them away again, clearly at war with himself. “You don’t have to forgive me.”

The idea of not being able to forgive Tony Stark - _Iron Man_ \- about anything was borderline absurd. Peter shook his head in confusion. “I don’t get it. What did you have to-”

At that moment, the black glass encasing the entire far side of the room started to lighten. Peter felt a momentarily stab of worry, concerned that the light would hurt him again, but it looked like the sun had gone down completely. His jaw dropped as he was momentarily gobsmacked.

The glass was actually a stretched, ceiling to floor window that opened to New York City, unfurling it in perfect display below them. The city lights had taken the place of the sun, a twinkling and sparkling canvas of multi colored stars that shimmered across the horizon like a constellation. The black granite at their feet reflected them, the floor mirrored like a master painting of artificial lights. Cars streaked across the winding streets, leaving ribbons of white yellow and red in their wake. 

He’d never seen the city like this before. He could see _every detail_ , as perfectly as he could on a photograph.

When he looked up again, Tony was watching him with an aged kind of sadness. His mouth opened and closed a few times before the words finally managed to come out. “Tell me, kid." He took a deep breath, "What do you know about vampires?”

The question threw him sideways. “...What?”


	4. Descent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October plans out the window
> 
> Oh well
> 
> Will most definitely be editing this and tweaking it later on- this is very much a first draft. I just wanted to get the chapter out, but, oof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another fic where I'm just descending into the unknown

It had taken Tony a long time to come to terms with his vampirism. 

He’d been turned in that cave in Afghanistan, his captors using an experimental vial of condensed venom. The species was extinct, by all intents and purposes, the vial derived from an ancient bloodline but still partially artificial, supposedly making the change even more painful. He’d writhed and screamed in agony for several days as the transformation took ahold of him, searing through his veins like hellfire.

Peter’s had been blessedly silent.

It had taken just mere moments for his venom to take effect, the gaping hole in Peter’s chest knitting back together and his ankle clicking back into place.Tony waited until he saw the small rise and fall of his chest before taking him to the penthouse. He kept waiting for the screaming to start. Waiting. And waiting.

 _He_ was the one that wanted to scream. He wanted to know why the universe put him in these desperate situations, made him make these choices, but he’d mirrored Peter’s quiet instead. The gravity of it all weighed on his shoulders with crippling weight.

He had said nothing walking into the Avengers building, had ignored the shocked and curious stares from the secretaries and other business workers as their eyes followed him and Peter, limp in his arms, as he entered the private elevator. He settled Peter into the guest room and changed his ruined, blood soaked clothes. Set them aside to be burned. The smell of offending, inedible blood had assaulted his nose.

He’d waited a while longer, but when Peter didn’t stir he went to his computer system instead, pulling up the details of the last decade of his life. 

It didn’t take him long to hack the files. The kid was just as smart as he remembered. Perfect grades, stunning prospects. A future he had nearly cost him. And maybe still, if the transition ended up failing after all. Whether to ease his conscience or his curiosity, Tony ran tests. Crunched numbers. Despite everything coming out in Peter’s overall favor, he ultimately didn’t let himself sleep until the third night, convinced that the kid was going to sleep the week through.

Friday had woken him up just two hours later. And now, with the city at his back, he faced the part he had been dreading:

Explaining.

“You’re not making any sense.” Peter said for what felt like the millionth time, “So you’re saying that all of that in Willard happened-”

“Yes.” 

“That I actually got _stabbed-_ ”

He flinched as he remembered, keeping his face a blank mask. The room felt cold. “You did.”

Peter shook his head like he’d just gotten splashed with cold water, “And then to undo me being kebabbed you had to, you had to- you had to _what?”_

It was easier to explain in less archaic terms, Tony had quickly realized. “I had to rearrange the fundamental parts of you. Mutate the cells to accelerate certain attributes of your healing, digestion, and regrowth. It saved you. Undid your ‘kebabbing’.” Even though _he_ was the one who should have been walking around with a silver chest piece and not the kid, “It’s going to be a shitshow for a while, but I’ll help you through it.”

“You used the term vampire.” Peter echoed. There was a spark of deeper thinking behind his wide, brown eyes, the scientific explanation settling in far better than the simplistic one had. The panic was rolling off of him in waves, and Tony could smell it in his scent.

“You can think of it as a kind of mutation.” In truth, there was a magical aspect tied in as well, but that could be explained later. His eyes once again trailed over to the bar, the bottles glistening temptingly from their glass encasement, but he kept fighting the need. 

A terrible thought seemed to have crossed Peter’s mind, and he was suddenly stepping away, putting the couch between them. Tony fought the urge to follow, quelling the instinct to physically make Peter _sit down_ again before he worked himself up enough to black out. The room's shadows framed the whites of his eyes, making him look like a cornered animal.

Peter’s mouth opened and closed, words failing him for a few moments. Articulating what he desperately needed to know seemed beyond his vernacular. He pointed a shaky fingers towards the crystal glass he had drank down just a minute earlier, the dark red still trailing down the sides in thick rivulets. “That… that wasn’t…?”

 _Blood_ was the word he was looking for, but it seemed to be caught in his throat. There was no point in hiding it. Tony was very quickly coming to realize he _hated_ the way fear distorted the kid’s smell, but he couldn’t lie about something so blatantly obvious. So he deflected instead. “You look like you’re about to keel over, kid.”

“ _I am-_ ” Peter shot back, his face going disturbingly white. He looked like he was about to be violently sick. His fingers clutched the back of the couch, nails digging deep into the fabric. There was a faint sound of ripping as the material strained and broke under the kid's new, unregulated strength. “You’re messing with me.” His face suddenly looked stricken, “You’re seriously pulling my leg. I’m about to be hardcore Punk’d.”

“That show couldn’t afford me.”

A sharp laugh came from Peter’s mouth, but it faded quickly. His fingers unclenched from around the couch, but his shoulders remained stiff. “Can I go?” 

The question hit him hard. If he let Peter go, he would be in danger. Undoubtedly the Hunters knew his face now, would be haunting the area to find him. Plus there were other supernaturals out there who were dangerous as well. The most logical reply was that he couldn’t just let a fresh supernatural wander about the streets with no guidance- SHIELD granted him a great deal of leeway, but if they were to find out he’d be answering for it. But how could he tell the kid that? Tony started to pace, momentarily quiet.

“Mr. Stark?”

He ran a rough hand through his hair. “You have to stay here for a while, kid.”

“I _can’t_ , Mr.Stark, I-I have to let my foster home know where I am, I have to tell my best friend Ned that I’m alright-” His voice gained a few octaves, “I have an important entrance exam for Midtown that I have to take, that I have to study for-”

 _Ned_. Tony stored that name in his head. He'd known about Midtown from his earlier perusal of the kid's files, but the friend's name was foreign. “Don’t worry about all of that, it’s taken care of.” It actually wasn’t, but he filed that in his head for later as well. Contacting the fosters and dealing with the system was going to be a fucking disaster, contacting the best friend could be equally messy, so for the foreseeable future the kid wouldn’t be able to go anywhere.

“Taken care of?” Peter repeated. There was a note of disbelief in his voice, the tone subtly calling him out on his bluff, even if he was still too polite to verbally pin him down for it. “It can’t- It’s just not possible. I have to go back.” He was trying to sound self assured, like if he took control the outcome would change. Things weren't real, weren't true, until you allowed them to be. He could see in the kid's face that he was desperately trying not to cross that threshold.

Tony paused as he saw it. There was a wrenching hint of a young, helpless face obscured beneath the fake, confident lines etched across Peter’s expression.

It was the glimmer of recognition that nearly broke him. The subtle familiarity that Peter carried in his eyes. He remembered him, subconsciously, but whatever thread of trust that granted Tony, he was incredibly close to losing it. The room dropped another few degrees, the colors themselves seeming to pale. The second the kid stepped away he was going to drink himself into a stupor, he decided.

 

~~~

 

Peter found himself analyzing the man’s movements from across the couch. His strangely heightened senses picked up on nuances he hadn’t before. How could he not have seen it? When Tony moved, each step was purposeful. He moved across the perimeter of the room with a steady, measured gait that was not unlike a predator. An intentless, idle one, but a predator nonetheless. 

While pacing, the distant lights of the city cast on Tony's irises at just the right angle as he turned, and for a split second they appeared more red than brown. Peter's eyes narrowed slightly, feeling sharply unsure. It couldn't be true. He’d admired this man for years, his mind buzzed desperately. He would have seen something; and if not him then surely the media. Tony Stark was always kept under a magnifying glass, each word and wayward glance eliciting stories of possible business propositions and closed door scandals in the tabloids. 

“Prove it.” Peter said suddenly, feeling a little wild. 

“Prove it?” The pacing slowed to a stop.

Peter nodded once curtly. “I don’t know, I-” He made nonsensical motions in the air, “I need proof or something so I know you’re not bullshi- messing with me. Like...” He thought for a moment, feeling ridiculous for what he was just about to say, “Can you… turn into a bat?”

A clipped laugh ripped through Tony’s throat. The deep lines of stress across his face eased briefly. “You watch two many movies kid, but…” For a moment he did nothing, seeming to consider the request before he finally stepped towards him. His upper lip curled back, his eyes shining with a pale, unnatural light before they suddenly brightened to a startling crimson. His canines lengthened, their sharp tips glinting in the low light. 

A wave of power swept over Peter, and he froze like a deer in headlights. It was like a bottle had just been uncorked. A stopper that had been holding back an unchecked swell of energy, massive and ancient. It was coming from the man in front of him, a face he suddenly questioned knowing at all.

Shadows crossed Tony’s countenance, the red spark of his eyes aglow in the rapidly flooding gloom, the absence of light. They shadows came alive, darkness swelling and arching over them with an otherwordly resolve, entrenching them both in its grasp. It glanced across them with its intangible fingers, the shade murmuring indecipherable whispers against his skin. For a single, heart stopping moment, a single word shot through Peter’s brain, confirming it all.

_Vampire._

Just as quickly it was all gone, Tony’s fangs - _his actual no shit fangs_ \- drew back and his eyes returned to their usual brown. The lights flickered back on, the shadows skulking back to their former places. The overwhelming energy snuffed out, and Peter let out a ragged breath he didn’t know he had been holding. His body trembled.

“Holy _shi-_.” Peter’s eyes went comically wide. In honesty, he didn’t know how to react. On television he'd seen all sorts of crazy things. He'd seen enhanced individuals before, those who had gifts that allowed them to do things other people couldn't, but this was different. With enhanced persons their powers were new and inherently part of them. This, this felt ancient, a kind of primordial blood rite that was perverse in its very nature.

So, he sputtered out the first thing that crossed his mind- “Take it back!’

“I can’t ‘ _take it back_ ’, it’s permanent.” Tony said. He’d spent millions looking for a cure, a way to reverse it. The answer couldn’t be found through non-magical means. He tried to hold up a placating hand as Peter’s pacing resumed. “You’re going to put a line in the floor.” He said, “You’re panicking again.”

“What, can you hear my heart?” Peter demanded. Just as immediately, his face dawned in realization. “Oh my god, I can hear _your_ heart.” It was a deep, steady thrum, beating at a low and calm tempo, contrasting sharply with his own rapidly thrumming pulse. “I have to drink blood now, don’t I? So, what do I do, just… ask local blood banks if they have any spare bags of blood?” A thread of panic started to lace his words as he kept going, “Ask people if they’re chill with me draining them out, drink from animals off the _street?_ ”

“You won’t be doing any of those things.” Tony cut in harshly. The disgusted look on his face made it clear what he thought of the suggestion. “Especially not eating off the street. That’s just… Gross. There’s a definite line there.” 

Fear was quickly replaced with wild, baseless anger. “What else am I supposed to do?! I can’t hurt people, I-” Peter’s eyes met Tony’s, and something solid cemented in his expression. “Wait. Pause. I’m not drinking anyone’s blood.”

“You already have.”

The thought seemed to make him sick. “You tricked me into doing that- I’m not doing it again.”

“If you don’t, you’ll die.” There was an edge in Tony’s voice.

“I already should have.”

“The whole point is that you _didn’t._ ”

Peter could feel his emotions teeter dangerously towards hysterics. He wanted to leave. He couldn’t even think of a good reason why he should, he just needed to. That sole thought asserted itself into pure intent, and he struggled to keep his voice steady. He’d jump out the window if he had to. “Why, _exactly_ , can’t I leave?”

“In honesty? I have no idea what these next few months are going to entail.” Tony wouldn’t lie, at least not directly. “There’s no precedent.”

“But you’re a…” Peter said, looking him up and down faintly.

Tony’s hands crammed into his pockets and he rocked back on his heels, shrugging. “It could be different. Theory is the bedrock on which our understanding of vampirism exists. Theories have to be retested, re-evaluated,” He motioned towards Peter, “Through careful observation.”

The scientific process was a second language to him, but this time it went right over his head. Peter blinked.

“What I’m trying to say is that I’m basically your babysitter for the foreseeable future.” Tony simplified. He added under his breath, "Hell if I know how _that's_ going to work out."

The words 'babysitter' and 'Tony Stark' didn't belong in the same sentence. It was basic grammatical law. Were he not so overwhelmed, Peter would have laughed at the idea. But here, now... Circumstances were making his head spin, and he struggled not to sway. “And this is, what, going to be some kind of ritzy daycare?”

Tony shrugged, nodding his chin towards the sprawling canvas of wealth around them. “You could do a lot worse, kid.”

There was a heavy pause between them, and Peter wrung his wrists nervously. He knew with certainty he couldn’t hurt anyone. That solidified in his head, and he held onto it like an anchor. “I won’t drink anyone’s blood.” He pressed, eyes flicking back over to the empty red glass, “Not again, at least.”

The declaration stirred up something volatile in Tony’s mood. For a moment it looked like the man was going to say something aggressively definitive like, ' _You'll drink blood if we have to use a damn funnel'_ , but he drew back at the last second. His face turned political. “Here’s what we’re going to do, kid. You’re going to head back upstairs and get some more rest. Tomorrow we’ll lay everything out on the table and _get all the facts_ before we start making crazy promises.” His brow lifted, “ _Capisci?_ ”

Peter frowned at the perfectly accented Italian. Because no, he did not capiche, he wanted to _go home_. But he considered it. As far as he could see the penthouse only had one entrance and exit. The Avenger looming in front of him was dead set on him staying, which told him that going back to Stockwell wasn’t an option. Whether it was Tony’s stiff, domineering stance or the personal realization that he was completely out of depth as of five minutes ago, he also didn't feel up to arguing.

So he nodded.

“Deal.” Tony cemented. He waved his hand. “Alright, skedaddle. You're going to pass out if you keep standing for much longer, and the couch isn't as comfortable as it looks, trust me.” He paused for a brief second before adding, "Tell Friday if you need me. I'll be here. Unless you need help back up the stairs?"

Peter shook his head quickly. He didn’t know who Friday was, but his mind was spinning too fast to ask for clarification. He started to step away but stopped. “I ripped the doorknob out.” He blurted. The splinters of wood were probably still scattered across the floor upstairs. He thought back to the metal wad he had in his hand. “Of my door. I… I think I crushed the handle too.”

“I saw.” Tony nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I’ll fix it, don’t worry about it. Just be careful about how much energy you put into your movements. You could probably bust a hole in the wall if you’re not careful.”

He was that strong? Peter regarded the elevator door with new interest at that information.

“Wood and drywall are one thing-” Tony warned dryly, eyeing him, “Two inches of pure steel are another.”

“I wouldn’t.” Peter said a little too quickly. It was true he couldn’t visualize himself punching holes into Tony Stark’s elevator door to run outside. Even if he managed to get into the actual unit, something told him to elevator wouldn’t take him down. “I’ll be more careful.”

With that, Peter skittered back to the spiral staircase, running back up the steps. He made a point not to look over at the pair of eyes he knew were watching him. Once he made it to the top he stopped, looking out over the sky window, which was still visible from the top floor. It hit him that he definitely had to be in the Avenger's tower penthouse, considering Manhattan seemed to be visible below, and the sheer height at which they were situated.

Could all of this just be a dream?

The rainbow flood of city lights had made the spiderwebbed crystals of the chandelier iridescent, scattering faint hues across the black tile. Tony had looked every inch the powerful man he was, standing with his back to the skyline window. At _several_ points Peter had to stop and ask himself if this was all real. But no, even he couldn’t have come up with a dream quite like this. Everything was sleek, expensive, otherworldly.

God, what the hell was he doing here?

He tucked himself back into the room he’d woken up in, setting the door closed as best as it would go. He considered moving a sidetable or something across it as a makeshift barricade, but he quickly cast the idea. Tony was one of the good guys, wasn’t he? There was no reason to try and keep him out when he was just trying to help.

Besides, he reasoned, if he was able to rip out the doorknob with little to no effort, it stood that Tony would probably be able to take the whole thing off its hinges without batting an eye. Well, not that he would.

The door felt flimsy, nonetheless.

The bed looked inviting, but Peter stepped past it. He tried a few of the other doors in the room to try and find the bathroom, being extra careful with the door handles. He discovered that he had not one, but two walk in closets. For the most part they were empty, though there were a couple shirts he figured he’d fit into, as well as a few sweats that were just a couple sizes too big to be right. Probably Stark's, though the idea of hijacking the celebrity's clothes was mortifying.

The bathroom itself was five times the size of his shared bedroom in Stockwell. He glanced past the claw tub and shower that seemed to be a seperate room in and of itself and went straight for the mirror.

He was immediately relieved when he could see his reflection.

He’d looked worse, he had to admit. His hair was still a mess, but the dark circles that had been under his eyes for months were gone. Probably from sleeping for four days straight. Instead, the lower part of his eyes were rimmed with a faint red from fighting back tears. His skin was otherwise clear, and lifting his shirt he once again confirmed that there were no marks left over from getting stabbed. Not even an indent. 

He paused then, remembering how Tony’s eyes had turned that vivid red. Leaning closer to the mirror, he inspected the irises of his eyes. He could see more detail in them than usual, the subtle nuances popping out with ease. They were still a soft, light brown. No flecks of red. He concentrated for a few moments, willing them to change if they could.

Nothing. 

He huffed, feeling like an idiot. Had Tony managed to dupe him somehow? But there was no way to fake his heightened senses. He'd been able to hear the man's _heart_ beating. He bit his lower lip, wondering if he had just managed to make himself look like a total loser in front of his idol after all.

A sharp pain had him reeling. “Ow!” Peter hissed. His shocked expression met him in the mirror, as well as a line of blood that was starting to trickle down his jaw. He put a startled finger to his lower lip, wincing when it hurt. 

Confused now, he plucked a few tissues from nearby, wiping off the small dribble of blood that was coming from his mouth. Leaning in, he was shocked to see that the soft skin had been _pierced_ by something.

He froze.

Opening his mouth very, _very_ slowly, he revealed the two impossibly sharp points of his canines. _Fangs._

Peter let out a loud, panicked curse, scrambling backwards until his back collided with the wall.


	5. Blending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whenever I step back to look at this fic, I squint my eyes and stroke my chin thoughtfully
> 
> In my eyes it's truly a conundrum - especially plot in later chapters. A tangled web I plan to weave, oh dear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> This chapter was rewritten probably.... ehh... 12 times?
> 
> I'm a damn maniac, that's what I am

There was now a dent in the wall.

Peter knew he made a mark the second he collided with the tile, the crack ripping through his keen ears.

It didn’t hurt, but the jolt physically grounded him. He stood there for as long as his legs allowed, staring back at the frightened expression in the mirror. Tile clattered to the floor.

Fangs. He had fangs.

Blurriness tugged the corners of his vision as he slid down to the floor, a creeping black that threatened to drag him under with threatening certainty. Tony hadn’t been lying.

Peter had seen superheroes before, had heard stories of people who could do things once thought impossible- but that was all, well, superhero stuff. This felt more like a Grimm fairytale, a twisted bedtime story that was wholly different from the shiny and marketable gloss that was the Avengers.

But it was either the bed or the bathtub. Peter reluctantly chose the bed after extracting himself from the wall, numbly walking to the mattress and sinking back into the blankets.

 _Vampires, fangs, drinking blood..._ All that, and he’d just put a hole in the wall of a multi million dollar penthouse. The tile alone was probably worth thousands more than his sorry hide, and it didn’t help that he’d already ripped out one of the doorknobs.

If he were at Stockwell, the door alone would have gotten him thrown to the street.

His body thrummed with anxiety, and he wished he could just sink into the mattress until he was hidden, far far away from the rest of the world. Was he now a superhero? Or… Did this make him a monster? Unable to stop himself, he ran the pad of his finger across the tips of his sharp teeth as he lay in terrified silence, marveling at how quickly the cuts on his skin would heal. 

It reminded him of his papercut in Willard. He watched the blood swell and retract just as quickly, the skin knitting back together in the blink of an eye. His eyes closed. He thought of Ned, of his home at Stockwell. He thought of the other kids who would probably brush off his disappearance. 

Did they even know he wasn’t there? 

They’d probably label it as another runaway attempt. He had an impressive record of it. On many occasions he had tried to run from Stockwell, from one of his many failed foster homes.

Would Ned think that was what happened? The thought made him feel queasy. Surely Ned knew that he wouldn’t have run off without at least leaving a note… But worst of all, Peter wondered if it would even matter. Would he still want to be friends with a vampire?

A minute more, and Peter slipped into a troubled, shallow sleep.

At first there was nothing, his mind entrenched in peaceful nothingness. But the dark pitch gradually morphed into something vivid. A dream. A _nightmare._

It was the noise that stirred him. Rain fell so heavily the glass panes around him were shaking, lightning crackling across the sky like spiderwebs. The sound backdropped as a low roar, Peter’s spine tingling as the windows threatened to break under the gale at any moment. Bookshelves loomed at every corner, smothering him in their sheer height and drowning him in their volume. 

Was this… Willard?

Peter sat upright, the floorboards beneath him creaking in protest from the change in weight. He turned his head to look around him. He felt… awake... But he knew he was asleep. The fog masking his thoughts quickly pinpointed this as a dream, but uncertainty tainted the back of his mind.

He pushed to his feet, looking around him. He wasn’t sure how to jolt himself awake, but he froze as his eyes dropped to the ground. He had been laying in the center of the room, spread out against the alchemical knot that was carved into Willard’s floor. 

It was covered in blood.

With a low cry, Peter fell backwards, scrabbling to get away. His heart pounded, eyes poring over every corner, every shadow inside the library for the men that had tried to kill him. _They were there, he knew they were there. Lingering in the dark, waiting with their hands clutching rods of ice cold silver-_ He wanted to wake up, _needed_ to wake up. The room remained empty, but his hands were covered in blood. He knew it was his own.

The blood had seeped into the cracks of the symbol, staining the wood and pooling into maroon rivers between the grooves. The building seemed to sigh in contentment. Something beneath the floor clicked, and the spiraling wood knots twisted and curled amongst themselves. It was beautiful in its complexity, if not terrifying by nature.

It was almost as if it were… unlocking.

Peter was forced to watch in morbid fascination as the floor cracked open like a puzzle, the alchemical symbol splitting into five pieces as it pulled away. It drew back with a low, howling groan, slowly revealing a grand, ancient staircase that sunk into the depths of Willard. He couldn’t see the end of it, the steps fading into the abyss. An ominous chill wracked through his spine in warning.

 _Leave,_ His instincts shouted, _Before it captures you here, leave and never look back._

But he couldn't move, his limbs slow and heavy. A gust of ancient, powerful wind blew from the space below. The entrance felt hollow, hungry. Like the jaws of some hideous monster that would swallow him at any moment, wide and aching. Peter’s fingers dug into the floor, certain that if he wasn’t careful he’d get sucked in.

A roar echoed from the realms beneath, and the last thing Peter could remember feeling was his still warm blood slick between his fingers.

~

Everything came back into focus, a gasp ripping through his throat.

The hard floor turned into a soft, cushioning mattress. The blood turned to fabric, white and smooth between his clenched fists. His face was burrowed into a pillow, the smell of clean linen jogging a hesitant familiarity.

Peter sat up, breathing hard. His eyes shot across the room, and it took him a few moments to remember where he was. It seemed that he’d slept through yet another day. The giant window looming in the far corner of the room was already turned off, the city lights glittering across the reflective black granite floors. He rubbed his hands together, relieved that the skin was no longer covered in blood. 

It was a dream. In his head, nothing more.

 _I'm in the Avenger's penthouse,_ He calmed himself, laying a hand over his stuttering heart, _Tony Stark saved me and brought me here, there's nobody in this room but me, i'm not in any danger right now-_

The sight of the city slowly soothed him. For a minute longer he traced the skyline, pinpointing some of the more prominent buildings and naming them in his head. He was in Manhattan. New York. The city that truly never slept, the lines of cars pinpricks of lights against the crevices between the towering skyscrapers, moving with the efficiency of a beehive.

He traced the winding lines of distant cars as he processed what had just happened. He’d dreamed of Willard. A darker, more sinister version of the already haunted building. With blood and moving floors. Just another cog in the city’s ever moving puzzle.

He wanted to ask why, but he knew. The image of the stake, buried in his chest to the hilt flashed at the back of his head, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He’d carry that image for a long time, if not forever. He remembered every vivid detail, could still feel the cold pressure of the silver crushing his chest. Nightmares were natural after that, right? Even if it had felt real, so incredibly real-

But his fingers were clean. He pulled his shirt up again, tracing over the smooth skin of his chest. No mark. 

Tony had promised him answers today, and that was enough to get him out of bed. Peter untangled himself from the sheets, pausing as he passed the large window. But it wasn’t day, he corrected himself, it was night. The sun had long since gone down, the streets awash with night owl city-dwellers. 

Something occurred to him then. Would he be able to go outside during the day? The light had hurt him before, scalding his skin and burning his eyes. But he’d seen Tony go outside on plenty of occasions. For public events and appearances, and from his many exploits as Iron Man as well. He always wore sunglasses, but sometimes he took them off, without so much as wincing.

Another question he desperately needed the answer too.

Peter splashed his face in the bathroom sink, staring at his reflection as he worked up the courage to go downstairs. The cut on his lip had already healed, flawless and smooth to the touch. A cursory check also confirmed that his canines were still sharp as polished knives, the tips scraping across his tongue.

A shudder ran down his spine.

Maybe he wasn't quite ready to go downstairs. In fact, he needed to shower. It hit him that he probably hadn’t bathed in- what was it now? Five days? Six? The water would help him clear his mind, too. He eyed the giant shower with trepidation, the various nozzles, handles, and other weird gizmos promising a puzzle in and of itself. 

It took him almost six minutes to figure out how to turn the showerhead on. There was a waterfall function - _a waterfall function, what the hell_ \- as well as a rain, mist, and drizzle setting. There was also a knob that controlled the jets as well, and he had little to no warning before no less than _six_ streams of water pummeled him from all sides, and he made a mental note to _never_ touch that knob ever again.

In the end he managed to find a half decent setting that wouldn’t flay his skin off. The water was harshly cold, but not quite frigid. He shivered as he rinsed off, and made short work of drying off.

He was still trembling when he pulled on the sweats and soft t-shirt that he’d slept in. There were other clothes in the closet, but he passed them over. If Tony had put them there for him to change into, he was still reluctant to take them. 

There was a brief attempt at piecing the broken tile back together, but he quickly abandoned the effort. There was no saving it. So far the first impression he’d given his childhood idol was solely composed of crying and breaking things. Great. Peter gave himself one last dewy expression in the mirror before leaving his room, certain that if he waited any longer he’d lose his nerve completely.

Hair still damp, Peter paused halfway down the spinning staircase, spotting Tony lingering by the kitchen counter. He was in casual sweats and shirt, similar to the day before. A far cry from his usual business suits and other high class attire. Normal, borderline personable.

His hands were dancing across a holographic screen, brows furrowed in concentration. Now equipped with razor sharp eyesight, Peter would have sworn he saw a picture of his face flash across the screen for a brief second. 

The celebrity was probably looking him up. It wouldn’t be surprising, but there wasn’t much to find aside from public foster records. That and his failed runaway attempts.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter started, unsure. He still felt like a stranger, careful not to touch anything but the floor he walked on. Not that he hadn’t already failed miserably. He’d ripped the doorknob out, and there was now a head shaped indent in the expensive bathroom tile upstairs. 

His hand ghosted above the banister, just in case.

Tony swept the holo screen to the side, the images closing. “C’mon down, Pete.” His voice sounded bright, but there was a tightness in his shoulders that gave an impression of restrained anxiety. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Peter slowly descended the rest of the stairs, heart stuttering nervously. The smells from the night before came back to him then. He recognized the bitter reek of alcohol from the bar, the fabric from the living space, the sharp tint of metal wrapped around them. He recognized Tony’s scent too, though that particular one had lingered upstairs as well. The influx of information was giving him a headache, and he found it difficult to focus.

Tony didn’t have any kind of trouble jumping right in. “How did you sleep?”

 _Awful. I dreamed of Willard, of my blood seeping into the wood, its floors opening like a hungry maw-_

“Fine.” He said quickly. It must not have been convincing, because Tony’s brow twitched. Not wanting to lie directly, he quickly hedged. “Well, I’ve just… I’ve never slept in a bed that comfortable before, it just feels weird.” That was true. He felt almost guilty sinking into the welcoming layers.

This seemed to be an acceptable answer, because Tony’s questioning expression wiped away, and he instead looked pleased. “Memory foam. Miracle product. I bet they had you sleeping on springs at Stockwell.” It was less a question than a statement.

“They do the best they can.” He defended automatically, eyeing the mug in Tony’s hand. Was the man drinking blood this very moment? After last night he was starting to question everything. On reflex, his body tried to answer for him, nose flaring slightly as he tried to pinpoint the cup’s contents.

“It’s coffee.” Tony said, watching him. The corner of his mouth lifted. “Trust me when I say you’d be able to tell otherwise. We can hone in on a single drop of hemoglobin from a hundred yards off.”

The use of the word ‘we’ echoed in Peter’s head. He wasn’t so sure what he thought of the word ‘we’. 

In the brief few moments of silence, (As if having nothing to say wasn't bad enough), he became aware that he was instinctively trying to mirror Tony’s impressive stance, his shoulders pulling back. He dropped them quickly. In one of Peter’s foster homes, he’d had a guardian who was obsessed with manners and presentation. She’d scold Peter everytime he slouched or held his neck too far forward. 

If she was here now, she’d probably swoon. Tony held himself in solid, impeccable posture, shoulders squared and chest confidently curved forward. His muscles were lean and his hands moved in steady, practiced movements. Tony was the image of both the perfect businessman and an enviable engineer, wrapped in daunting character. 

Peter’s body was curling in on itself. Back at Stockwell everyone always complained he never stopped yapping. He was the annoying kid who never stopped talking, never stopped bouncing with ideas. Where were all those famous words now? He wanted to vanish, sink into the floors or spiral into a black ether. If he managed to leave the penthouse, he’d hit the pavement running. 

“Why don’t you eat something?” Tony offered, watching him closely.

“Not hungry.”

“Doubt that. Drink some water at least. I’ve had to put an IV in you twice since you got here.” He lifted the mug to his mouth with a frown, “And your veins are thinner than hair strands, so save me the trouble of digging.”

Before Peter could awkwardly demure, a whining beep sounded from the projector between them, a series of images popping up on the hologram. Tony cursed under his breath. 

“Gotta take this.” He snapped his fingers. “Water- pour yourself a glass. We’ll start there.” Without waiting for a reply, he tapped twice on an earpiece Peter hadn’t noticed before, the images on the counter following him as he strode across the room.

He had an IV in him at some point? Peter couldn’t remember any of it. At Tony’s impatient beckoning from across the room, he walked around the counter, peering at the cabinets cautiously. Now that it had been mentioned, he _was_ a little thirsty, but the need to touch only what was absolutely necessary had him pausing. This was the worst part of going to a new house - he had no idea what cabinet the glasses were in.

How awkward would it be if he just flat out used his hand to drink from the faucet? It’d save him the trouble of rummaging, at least. And he didn’t want to add a broken glass to his track record either. He knew he was being watched too, which made the mortification worse. His sharpened hearing picked up snippets of the phone call.

_‘...Business to take care of, tell the others to quit bugging me…. No, I don’t know how long, but-’_

A flush crept onto Peter’s cheeks as he tuned out, not wanting to blatantly eavesdrop. Grabbing the aforementioned glass- though it wasn’t even glass, it looked like crystal - he dutifully went to the sink and pushed the left handle. There was only a few centimeters of water in the glass before hot steam started to billow from the interior.

The water… The water was _hot._

 _Hot water?_ “Whoa!” Peter exclaimed, unable to contain himself. He let his hand run under the faucet with a shocked grin, ignoring how the burning water scalded him.

A startled protest erupted from the other side of the room. With a loud hiss, Tony was suddenly beside him, seizing his wrist and yanking it away. The hologram zipped shut as he turned the water off with a sharp motion. “Good lord, what are you, three?” He demanded incredulously, “Am I going to have to childproof the stove? Plug the wall sockets?” 

“I just turned it on,” Peter said, still surprised. They both watched as his skin healed, the angry red slowly fading. “It got hot in less than a second.”

Tony looked at him like he'd sprouted another head.

“Back at Stockwell,” He tried to explain quickly, embarrassment racing through him, “It… It takes like, ten minutes for the water to heat, so we never got to use it because Ms.Grayne is always complaining about the water bill-” The flabbergasted expression on Tony's face had him pausing. He was so used to having only cold water it'd never occurred to him he would have otherwise. “I wouldn't have taken a cold shower this morning if I'd thought of it.” He admitted.

“ _You took a cold shower-_ ”

“I didn’t know you had hot water.” The words sounded even more insane out loud.

Tony had to visibly take a moment to collect himself. He breathed deep, turning the faucet back on and filling the glass. He handed it back to Peter, brows drawn. “Cold showers. I- Christ, what the hell do you do in the winter?”

“Take _extra_ cold showers.”

“That’s-” Tony’s eyes narrowed, his pupils thinning for the briefest of moments. “I’m going to be making a few phone calls today. If they can’t even afford to heat their water then they shouldn’t have kids staying there-”

Peter panicked. “There’s hot water,” he reminded quickly, “It just takes a really long time for it to warm up, so we don’t bother waiting because it adds up on the water bill pretty quick. Money’s tight so none of us mind, we’re used to it.” The money that was saved on the water bill was put towards other essentials. If cold showers meant new coats, books, and shoes, then it was worth it.

Tony had no words.

“Besides,” Peter added sheepishly, “In Japan there are monks that meditate under freezing cold waterfalls daily. I say it's a testament of character."

The joke fell flat, his words only ruffling Tony further. “You're neither Japanese nor a _monk_. New topic. Chug that.” He waited until Peter had finished the glass before he continued, “We'll start with the essentials, so listen up kid. We don’t know each other very well, but if this is going to work, we have to lay out some ground rules.”

Ground rules. Right. There was a brief moment where Peter wanted to argue and say that he did, in fact, know Tony relatively well, at least when it came to Iron Man and his accomplishments as an inventor and scholar, but he stopped himself before the words left his mouth. Maybe admitting that he was a super big fan wasn't a good idea. It was embarrassing, in the very least. He cringed when he thought of all the newspaper clippings hanging up on his wall back in Stockwell. He felt a sudden urge to escape and burn them all.

Tony cleared his throat and began counting on his fingers. “Rule number one, no leaving the penthouse.” The expression on Peter’s face must have been horrified, because he added, “For now. You could hurt someone if you’re not careful.”

“I’d never hurt _anyone._ ”

“I didn’t say you would. Purposefully. I’m telling you that it could happen by accident. You have to learn how to control these abilities so you don’t crush someones hand to splinters when you try to give them a handshake.” A small grin tugged the corner of Tony’s mouth. “And don’t bother lying about how you’ve got it under control. I know you busted a hole in the wall somewhere upstairs the other night.”

Peter’s heart stuttered, guilt gnawing a hole in his chest. “I’m really, _really_ sorry-”

The mug Tony had been working on earlier found its way back into his hand, and he took another casual sip of coffee. “Don’t sweat it.” His tone was neutral, like it truly wasn’t of consequence, “I once took an entire door off of my prototype Audi because I was so preoccupied with my date. Not easy to explain, let me tell you. Walls are much easier to replace.”

“It was the bathroom tile.” Peter admitted sheepishly. “So if I learn to control my…” The words sounded strange in his mouth, “Super strength, I can be back in time for my entrance exams?”

The question seemed ludicrous to Tony. “First few days as a vampire and you're still obsessing over schoolwork, kid?” The holo rang beside him, but he turned it off with a simple swipe. “They've really got you whipped." He chuckled to himself, but his smile faltered when it became clear that Peter was waiting for a serious answer. He shrugged. "Maybe. But it depends on your blood intake too.”

_Blood._

In a way, he almost didn't want the answer to his next question. “How often do you have to…?” Peter started, but the words stuck in his throat. He started to feel queasy.If he was a vampire, then of course he would have to... But he drew the line at people. He'd made that clear before. 

Tony hummed. The mug spun idly in his fingers, and he nodded as he took another long swig of coffee. “Once a day generally, twice depending. Though it’s stretchable by a week or two if needed. The longer you wait, the worse the urges.” His expression darkened with morbid humor, “Wait too long and survival instincts will boot in.”

“What does that mean?” 

“Full on Dracula. You’ll be scouring the streets like a hellsent Nosferatu until the metaphorical piper is paid his dues. Late night walkers beware.” Tony held up a finger at the dawning expression of horror passing across Peter’s face, “Let me finish. On the other hand, drinking a glass a day puts you in full control. Someone could be bleeding out in front of you and you won’t so much as bat an eye.”

 _A glass a day? Sometimes two? And how many people have bled out in front of you that you know that??_ Peter paled as he tried to calculate those numbers. Two cups a day, which was roughly a gallon a week, and the human body held about one and a half gallons of blood at a time- 

“That’s a whole human’s worth.” He spluttered, eyes wide. “Every week.” To function normally he’d have to drain someone dry once a week- for an indefinite amount of time. His heart started to pick up. There was absolutely no way-

Tony must have sensed him panicking, because he held out a steadying hand. “Relax, kid, we don’t pick people up off the street. It’s all donated through blood banks.” 

Blood banks.

Not people. 

A small sliver of relief wormed into his chest, but his head still shook in refusal. He still didn't want to drink it. "What about animals?" He didn't want to drink animal blood either, but it would be a welcome alternative.

"Not at your age." Tony shook his head, "You're still too young. It has to be human."

"But you said you didn't know everything about vampirism."

"I know this because I tried the same thing," He explained sternly, "It had to be human blood for the first year. Even after that animal blood is a weak substitute and it isn't sustainable-" 

It seemed like he was about to rattle off the scientific explanation, but for once Peter didn't want to hear it, cutting him off. "I still can't do it. I'll try animal blood if I absolutely have to, but I can't drink human blood... I just can't." He made that statement boldly, but he wasn't so sure if he could even follow through and try drinking from animals.

Visibly frustrated, Tony pinned him down with a loaded expression, “Listen. It's nuts, a not so nice reality. I get it. Trust me, when I got the rundown second hand I wasn't to keen on it either. But I did it because I had to- because I _still_ have to. And I hate it, but until there’s an alternative this is what we have to deal with.”

The tightness in the man’s jaw and the flicker of righteousness glinting in his eyes looked like it had been taken right off of a magazine page. Peter drummed his fingers against the counter, biting his lip. He wouldn't argue. Wouldn't talk back. But he wanted to. He was careful not to prick himself with the sharp point of his newly formed canines as his muscles went tense.

He couldn’t drink blood. Even if it was all willingly donated. He didn’t want to outright argue with Tony Stark of all people, but he couldn’t give in either. On the other end, if he didn’t drink it he wouldn’t be allowed to leave the penthouse. The two contradictions warred a silent battle in his head. Neither gave way, and his eyes started to get misty. _No crying,_ He raged at himself, _I absolutely will not cry._

The world started to spin. 

“I need to lay down.” A traitorous tear managed to slip past his guard, but he whipped his head away fast enough so Tony wouldn't see. The world tilted with him. It took all of his focus to stay balanced as he sped back up the stairs without so much as looking back, even though he knew that there wasn’t really an escape. He was stuck.

He didn't care that he'd just woken up. He'd lay in bed all day if he had to. Maybe sit and watch the city. Watch the dots of people below scatter across the streets, so far away the streets were no wider than his finger, the cars nothing more than spots of light.

Tony didn’t stop him.

 

~

 

By some luck, (if Peter even had any to begin with), the first morning had been the weirdest. 

Well, night. Peter found that his internal clock roused him just as the sun went down. Staying up during the day felt like pulling an all nighter, and his body protested every attempt he made at correcting his nocturnal tendencies. It was a small thing, but it dampened his already wounded spirits nonetheless. He'd never been a morning person, but it felt strange to now not have the option.

Despite his new circumstances, he made an effort to keep studying. He found a couple notepads and a few pens tossed in one of the otherwise empty side drawers. Confining himself to his room left him with very few ways to pass the time, so he spent it running numbers and reciting formula equations.

All those weeks of desperately looking for a quiet spot to study, and the universe had finally slapped him across the face with it.

Figured.

For the most part, Tony left him alone. The quiet was slowly starting to drive Peter crazy. There was nobody to talk to, nobody to bounce ideas off of. So in the end, he had no choice but to go back downstairs. Even then Tony's company was awkward and distant- they were still strangers, after all, but it was better than sitting alone.

Once Peter had worked up the courage to leave his room on a regular basis, they shared a few awkward meals. Tony would often watch him from the other end of the table, disapproving at his food intake. But he _did_ eat, all in all, just very little. It took some adjusting to get used to his new teeth. More than once he'd accidentally bitten off some of the metal prongs of his fork. When Tony started threatening an IV, he started piling the food in mindlessly, remembering how Tony had described finding his veins as ' _digging_ '.

He tried to ignore the fact that no matter how much he ate, his stomach didn’t feel like it was getting full. It felt just a little bit hollow, like it was missing something. He shoved that feeling down as far as it would go. No matter how many times he was offered a glass, ' _Just a sip, kid, seriously-_ he refused to take a single drop.

A tepid routine was quickly established, despite how little they interacted.

Peter would wake up just after sunset and watch the city lights and traffic buzz below until the smell of cooking drew him down the spinning staircase. Tony would attempt to pry, ask questions circulating symptoms and powers, which Peter would blearily describe as being the same. He only lied when it came to hunger- he kept insisting that he didn’t have any… otherworldly cravings, but Tony wasn’t buying it. To be honest he didn’t really either.

Not that it mattered- he hadn't changed his mind.

Every evening when Tony opened the small steel fridge in the counters, the lushly sweet smell of blood wafted right into his nostrils, his new canines aching with eager persistence. He hated it.

Another quick realization was that Willard was a point of contention. Any further inquiries on what had happened, who those people were, or why the librarian was so chill about sending him a bill to clean _bloodstains_ , were pushed aside with uncharacteristic venom. Tony didn’t want to talk about Willard, he made that abundantly clear. Which Peter didn’t like talking about it either- seriously, that’s where he got stabbed- but the vivid dreams haunting his sleep drove him to keep pressure on the subject. 

So far, no headway.

Despite their rocky communication, Peter was surprised to find that the celebrity seemed to have nothing else to do but hang around the penthouse, only disappearing from time to time in the sublevel below the living room area. Didn’t the superhero have stuff to do? People to save? When Peter got curious, he found that the stairwell was biometrically locked, and he wondered what was just below them.

Something top secret, probably. None of his business. But that only stirred his curiosity further.

Time emboldened Peter's exploration of the rest of the penthouse, however. He still wanted to leave, but a deeper part of him was still adamant that he discover and catalog the rest of the famous Avengers tower. Ned would kill him if he didn't, seriously. _That_ , another, more plotting voice in his head supplied, _And you could probably find a second exit that isn’t as well guarded._

So he'd have seen the Avengers tower and gotten back in time for entrance exams, best case scenario. No excuse, really.

So while Tony was in the mysterious sublevel, he wandered. The living room, kitchen, and bar area made up the majority of the first floor. There was also a makeshift dining area up where the elevated bar was, overlooking the outside balcony.

The balcony, he remembered Tony adding once, didn’t have railing on certain parts, so it would be better if he didn’t wander out on it carelessly. Vampires were sturdy, but a several thousand foot drop would probably turn him into a pancake. Pancakes didn't take entrance exams, and he weren't fond of heights either, so it was given it a wide berth. Even if the view _was_ spectacular.

The second level he was somewhat familiar with. The wing that had his bedroom was apparently the section that hosted all the bedrooms- five total, all of them empty except for theirs. All of the spaces thus far followed the sleek, expensive, detached feel, every detail and molded nuance in the interior design furthering Peter’s awe.

On the other side, across from the spinning chandelier, were the office spaces. There was a main study that particularly interested him, with bookshelves that stretched up into the ceiling, the majority of the spines smooth and untouched. It was nowhere near the sheer quantity that Willard hosted, but it was impressive regardless. He studied the titles. Some were classics, others looked more like scientific textbooks and scholarly publishings. 

A few of them had Ivy League names emboldened in gold across the spines, which excited him to no end. He hadn't yet worked the courage to ask to borrow one.

The only other unexplored region was the basement. He wondered if it was just more office space. He wondered about a lot of things as the hours bled into days. There was little else to do.

Surely the police were notified at this point, with Stockwell no doubt labeling it as another escape attempt. Ned was probably worried sick. His roommate, Phil, had likely taken over his side of their closet sized bedroom as well, considering himself lucky. He’d have a full sized bedroom while Peter was probably sleeping in a cardboard box somewhere in downtown Brooklyn.

 _If only he knew_ , Peter thought dryly, eyeing his plush bed the size of Everest. He was trying to not let himself be spoiled by the impossibly comfortable nimbus that was his new sleeping domain, but he was starting to despise the springs waiting for him back at Stockwell. 

However, in all fairness, the nightmares continued despite the luxury. They were dark, fragmented dreams of Willard, the library’s shadows whispering wordless omens and clawing at his chest with fingers of dread. Sometimes he felt the cold burn of silver sinking into his heart.

On the sixth night, he had woken up to his closet being almost completely filled with boxes. He had no idea where they had come from. The doorknob had been fixed too, and the tile in the bathroom was also restored.

It had to have been Tony. Had he been sleeping that soundly that he hadn't noticed?

When he wandered downstairs, chasing the smell of food, he timidly asked what the boxes were for, but the answer further baffled him.

“Clothes.” Tony said from between bites of his omelette. “So you’re not wearing the same shirt and sweatpants every day. It’s starting to gross me out. You know I loaned you out more?”

Peter thought of the other sets that had been sitting in the closet from before, shaking his head. “I didn’t want to hijack any of your- wait.” A mental image of the boxes came back to him. Several boxes. Many boxes. Big, impressively sized boxes. A twinge of alarm went through him. “How many did you-”

“You can rifle through them after you eat.” Tony said, eyeing the untouched plate in front of him, “And if you don’t eat the omelettes I made for you I’ll be heartbroken. It took me ten whole minutes of effort.”

To appease him, Peter dutifully took a bite. “You owe me a new sweatshirt,” He corrected, remembering the promise Tony had made that night in Willard, “Not a whole wardrobe.” He had outfits enough back at Stockwell if he could only go back, he wanted to say, but that sour statement clung to the back of his throat.

“I’m counting in interest.”

“A whole wardrobe is a few days interest?”

Tony merely hummed happily from around his fork.

Arguing with Tony was a kind of art form, Peter had begun to realize, and not something he could do easily after just waking up. He continued to nibble at the edges of his own plate, swallowing absently. But the boxes bothered him. What was he going to do once he went back to Stockwell? He wouldn’t be taking all of that with him. It was going to be a waste. But he wasn't even sure how long he was going to be pilfering around the penthouse.

The idea of the clothes _not_ going to waste was just as disconcerting a concept.

"And I want you to stop turning the window tint off whenever the sun rises to check and see if you're adapted yet." Tony added, giving him a look from across the table.

Peter startled. "You know that I-"

"Friday has been telling me."

 _But who the hell was Friday?_ He still hadn't figured that out. Regardless, his cheeks flushed at the idea that this mysterious entity had somehow ratted him out. He wouldn't deny it. Even with Tony’s confident hypothesis that he would be able to withstand sunlight again in just a few days, he waited for the sunrise after each night, turning off the tinted windows just long enough to see if his body could handle it. 

His blood drinking battle was useless if he couldn’t even walk outside during the daytime. Midtown didn’t have night classes, so every sunrise, he tested his sensitivity. So far, the results were all the same. It burned him each and every time, the light scalding as it pierced his skin and razed his eyes. He would fall back on his bed, vision blurry and head pounding. It took several minutes for the consequences of the brief second of exposure to fade.

Months, was the time estimate Tony had initially given him. He'd be 'babysat' until he acclimated. Regardless, he hadn't given up on his school yet. “I have to keep checking. The sooner I adjust the sooner I can go back to Willard and study for Midtown.” The words were out of his mouth before he could regulate them.

“You’re not going back to Willard.” A dangerous glint sparked in Tony’s eyes.

“No, not Willard.” Peter agreed, correcting himself. “I don’t think I’ll ever think of it the same again. But somewhere. If I don’t get into Midtown, I-” It was him and Ned’s way out. But more so, it excited him. A school full of other like minded people. Kids who sketched out ideas and transcribed formulas and equations in their notebooks. Peter was too nice to say it to his current teachers, but he needed a challenge. Craved it. 

“Hyperdilated irises, reflective retinas, sensitivity to UV-” Tony started counting off. All of the side effects and symptoms he was supposed to be careful about. "Spontaneous combustion should be added to the list, considering that's what you seem so intent on doing come very morning. I'm going to find you as an ash pile on the floor."

“I know, I know.” Peter said, “I’m aware of all those things, but I just… I need to keep checking. I’ll go crazy otherwise.” He thought for a moment, a questioning lucidity overtaking him. "Would I actually turn to dust if I stood there long enough?"

“No," Tony grinned, "Probably not. But you'd need some serious aloe vera, that's for certain." He chuckled but seemed to catch himself, clearing his throat in the face of Peter's dimming expression. "If you're going crazy doing nothing then maybe I can help.” He studied him for a few moments. “Why don’t I show you something? An alternative to roasting yourself in front of the windows.”

Peter finished the last few bites on his plate. Tony had seriously started packing on the calories for him- there had been three giant omelettes stacked on his plate, all of them now gone, crumbs and all. But despite how much extra he'd started eating, he was still hungry. He knew what his body was missing, what it wanted, but he didn't dwell. _Never_ dwelled. 

"What are you going to show me?" He didn't promise to quit testing his sun vulnerability, but he _was_ bored. He was eager for something new.

"The basement," Tony said easily, as if he hadn't known the contents of the sublevel had been one of Peter's biggest questions since day two, "That's where I have my lab."

Peter's fork clattered to the table.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> *chuckles nervously* This... this is going to be WAY more than 13 chapters


	6. Great Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smashing my head against my desk currently
> 
> I feel like a cat dropping a dead mouse at their owner's feet
> 
> -

Images of the famous Stark labs were rare. 

You could only find them if you dug deep, as the industry tended to bury misplaced Avenger selfies and ill posted twitter feeds as quickly as they appeared. There were three known labs in existence: The one at the Avenger’s compound, the one at Tony’s personal home in California, and the one in the tower.

For some reason, when Tony said the ‘basement’, Peter had literally thought they were going to the tower’s bottom floor. It just inherently made sense to have it in an underground bunker, kind of like Area 51, tucked away and out of sight.

But no, it was a floor below the balcony, wrapped in several layers of titanium and concrete, several hundred feet ascended into the sky. After a moment’s deliberation, Peter decided he wasn’t surprised.

Tony seemed almost self conscious when they made it to the glass doors. They were fogged over, and Peter was practically vibrating with excitement. “So you’re into science, all that jazz?” Tony questioned, eyeing him speculatively. He set his hand down on a biometric scanner that came to life at his touch.

The answer leapt from Peter's tongue with an excited breath. “ _Yes._ ” He thought back to the impressive hoard of journals he had tucked into his mattress at Stockwell. Sketches, ideas, theories. He’d learned long ago to hide them after having one too many thrown into the city gutter. Hopefully they hadn’t been discovered. His roommate was meticulously nosy, and if his bed had already been hijacked, it was more a matter of time than anything.

Tony nodded, straightening his shirt in an undeniably classy movement. “I’ll give you the grand tour, then. Just do me a favor and don’t touch anything that looks… Well, anything that looks dangerous.” His tone was casual, as though he invited fourteen year olds into top secret labs that were stocked with explosives and other dangerous devices on a daily basis.

If you couldn't admire the man for much else, his ability to make even the strangest situation seem normal was impressive.

The doors slid open, and Peter was immediately inside. His first impression was that it was dark. Very, very dark. There were no windows. The only light was coming off of errant computers and other devices. He could hear their components whirring in a muted thrum. By vampire standards, however, it may as well been daytime. It took less than a second for Peter’s eyes to adjust.

It was everything he’d ever dreamed. He drank it all in, the equipment that he’d seen only in pictures, read about in theoretical papers and scholarly journals. His eyes flitted across the room, parched for knowledge but unknowing of where to look first. He could name only a third of the larger work machines, was dying to know what was tucked away in every single drawer.

Counters circled the center of the room, holographic glass screens hovering above them. White, clean, glossy. Other equipment was scattered across the room in a seemingly organized fashion. Large, laser cutting devices with crushing machines; Metal saws and drawers with filled with tools, wires, and bolts.

An inventor’s playground.

Suits were lined up against the back wall in various shades and builds. Some were sleek and silver, others padded in bulky titanium to give them more mass. He spotted a couple of the classic red and gold models, recognizable from their regular debuts on the news. They stood still and silent from within their glass cases, proud and intimidating.

The floor was a wash of concrete, embezzled with scorch marks and skid lines. What could only be bullet holes had chipped away several parts of the wall. This kind of controlled chaos was completely different from the clean cut luxury of the upstairs penthouse. A lot of the devices looked to be bolted down to the floor, several things reinforced with steel.

Despite the excitement, a shudder wracked through Peter’s spine, peppering him in goosebumps. In the dark, the sharp gleam of the suits was almost insidious. The hollow silence of the room was an unsettling contrast to the level of destruction all of this technology was capable of causing.

Bombs that could wipe out small towns, lasers that could cut through solid steel, bullets that were heat seeking and detonated on impact. Potentially devastating weapons in the wrong hands.

It was hard to ignore the power of this place, and it sent a thrill of caution through him to think of the possibilities. 

Tony flipped the switch, and the shadows fled. Everything looked a lot more cheery under the fluorescent lights, but it didn’t lessen the dangerous aura. “ _Il mio santuario._ ” He introduced, walking them over to the closest workbench. "At least when Hawkeye isn’t breaking in, but I’ve exhausted my options in that department.”

Peter was possessed with the insane urge to touch one of the many Iron Man suits lining the wall. Instead, he examined the sketches on the bench with awe, noting the reflective panels designed to line the exterior. A stealth suit, it looked like.

In the next breath, Peter was weaving through the whiteboards lining some of the stations, reading through the equations.

It was difficult to know where to look next. He wanted to know everything- the real thinking behind the Stark technology, the whole process from start to finish. Seeing theory in physical practice was like breathing for the first time- shocking and utterly satisfying.

Tony was loosely following behind him, a pleased smile on his face. Likely he didn't get to share the lab with many outsiders, so the fresh pair of eyes seemed to confirm something for him. 

He shook his head when Peter stopped them at one of the whiteboards. “That’s the dull stuff, kid.” Tony said, “I’ll show you something more exciting-”

“It’s not boring!” Peter protested. He leaned in, reading the neat scrawl on the board. The main equation was partially wiped away and smudged to hell, like it had been rewritten several times. He squinted, making out a few of the erased numbers. His heart skipped when he recognized it. “Why are you re-examining the Drude Model?”

Tony stopped. 

A beat passed.

One.

Two.

“You know what that is?” 

Peter nodded. “Well, yeah. It’s… An application of kinetic theory. For electrical conduction in metals. But… it doesn’t have its supplementary additions.” His earlier confidence started to wane, a flush of embarrassment starting up his neck. It looked like Tony had been doing more than just rethinking the model- there were several diagrams depicting the reflectivity and transmission levels for a crystal component he didn't recognize.

For the first time that week, Tony looked completely and utterly disarmed. “That’s right. You realize that’s advanced physics?” He picked up the marker and handed it to him, something startlingly eager in his expression. “Can you complete it?”

“Just the basic equation?”

Tony nodded.

Under the spotlight, Peter hastily finished the model under Tony’s full attention. His nervous handwriting looked short and choppy next to Tony’s precise type, but he prayed it was somewhat legible. He wasn’t sure if he should include the linear relationship between densities, so he tacked it on underneath. When he was finished he capped the marker, looking to Tony for tepid approval.

It was like a lightbulb had went off. Tony shook his head in disbelief, smiling. “My intellectual ego is being jeopardized. Since when are they teaching solid state physics in middle school?”

“They aren’t. But Columbia university will sometimes donate outdated textbooks to the public library for archival or basic loaning-” Peter cut himself off, feeling the heat reach the bottom of his cheeks.

“Don’t be nervous, kid.” Tony said, watching him intently. “That’s pretty damn impressive.” He tucked his hands in his pockets, eyeing him thoughtfully. “...You’ve never been tested.” It wasn’t a question so much as a statement.

“What, like…”

“IQ. Capacity for learning. Nerd level.”

Peter blinked. “No… I know my personality type though.”

This must have been hilarious, because Tony started laughing, patting him heartedly on the back as he steered him towards the center console. He sat him down at one of the desks. “Let’s start with the basics then.” He studied him with a newfound spark in his eyes. “You know? I think we’re going to get along.”

That single sentence was arguably the best thing Peter had heard all week. 

For the next several hours they worked in the lab, and it seemed that Tony's assessment was correct. They worked pretty well together, moving and following a line of thought like cogs in a clockwork. Tony hadn’t hesitated to throw him in head first. Without any precursor he had him looking over the holo screen, gauging where his knowledge level was. Peter felt a little on the spot, but with each correct answer he felt more confident.

He wasn’t making an idiot out of himself at least, and Tony’s encouraging energy was bolstering.

They went over everything from mathematics, physical and biological sciences, to Peter’s personal favorite- chemistry. Time passed by in a blur, and Peter found himself talking more animatedly, motioning with his hands and lifting his voice when he got excited. As they got deeper, Tony eventually started asking questions Peter didn’t know the answers too, but he waved off his frustration.

“Most fourteen year olds couldn’t even pronounce this stuff.” Tony’s satisfied approval was radiating off of him in an infectious wave. “At this rate you’re going to be offered grants before you hit the legal drinking age.”

That, Peter somewhat doubted, but he was too excited to be contrary.

Tony pulled out a work in progress, encouraging him to scope out his intention with the project. While Peter didn’t know the programming, he made a few suggestions as they went about the cooling system. When Tony decided to implement one of his ideas, he felt like fainting. 

All week Peter had felt like he’d been under a dark, inescapable storm cloud. He’d missed the hum of the city streets, the constant press of voices and car horns, Ned’s incessant chatter. The penthouse was beautiful and sleek, but also disturbingly empty. The hallways were quiet, the rooms cold and untouched. Sometimes Peter felt like he was walking through a billion dollar tomb.

Didn’t Tony ever get lonely?

But no, Peter decided, not when he had so much work to do in the lab. Even now he could see why Tony was a known workaholic- the brain workout was chasing all of his own worries away, and for a moment he could even pretend everything was normal again.

As normal as it could get in Tony Stark’s lab, at least. But any semblance of it was a relieving balm. It made it easier to ignore the hollow ache in his stomach, the gnawing burn in his teeth. Advil hadn't helped. Something told him he’d need stronger drugs to achieve any real relief.

So he threw himself into the harness, and they pounded out at least three different complex errors in the latest Iron Man armor. It was probably the weirdest form of therapy Peter had ever participated in. Ten times more expensive, though.

He couldn’t contain a flinch when he saw Tony throw a six thousand dollar custom titanium piece into the scrap bin because it had a barely noticeable warp on one of the corners.

 _Six thousand dollars_ , Peter thought. He’d once watched Ms. Grayne take on a kid they hadn’t had room for simply because it would get her another two hundred dollars a month in government support. He calculated that math. _That scrap is worth thirty of me._

Tony, he noticed, whether through blatant nihilism or a misplaced notion of invincibility, didn't bother to wear goggles, just balancing them a few inches from his face before haphazardly tossing them aside. It was both inspiring and terrifying. Having super healing probably the reason for the poor habit.

Still, Peter made a point to find and adjust his own pair. He had a suspicious feeling that Tony was a ‘Do as I say, not as I do,’ kind of teacher.

Problem number four came and went, then number five. Halfway through number six Tony spotted an adjustment error, which added a number seven. He went through almost three pots of coffee, but refused to let Peter so much as touch it

After a while, Peter started to yawn. He wondered if dawn was coming soon. It was hard to tell without windows, and there wasn’t a clock in sight. He wondered if Tony preferred to lose track of time as he worked, gauging progress not by hours but by results.

Sleep started to pull him under, exhaustion heavily dragging his eyelids. At some point music had started to play, a low, jogging rhythm of rock. Instead of keeping him awake it was now starting to lull him under.

They had almost finished the backplate, finally, but there was little left to do but solder the protective framework back into place. Tony didn’t need him for that part, so Peter started to wander around the rest of the lab, knowing that if his eyes closed, he likely wouldn’t be able to tempt them open again. 

Eventually he collapsed in one of the spinning chairs, twirling absently and fighting the threat of sleep. Fighting his new nocturnal clock was a losing battle.

He noticed a bright red file sitting on the desk, and he picked it up, staving back another heavy yawn. It looked different than the others. “What’s this project?” Peter held up the heavy crimson file, with the word ‘Ultron’ written in heavy handed sharpie. It looked important, wrapped in a heavy bands with papers practically spilling out of the sides. 

Tony hummed in question. When he saw the file he shook his head, getting up and plucking it from his fingers. “An AI I’m working on. Still in progress, so it’s top secret.” He winked. “High level clearance you don’t have yet, kid.”

“Can I help out?”

“Help out?” Tony parroted, bending back over his work, “Is that not what you’re doing now? Hand me that receiver panel.”

Peter swiped it off the counter, rolling the chair over. He watched with interest as Tony soddered it onto their current project with perfect precision, fastening a titanium frame around it. It took him less than a few seconds.

“Like, in the future. With stuff down here in general. It doesn’t have to be Ultron.” Peter clarified. The thought of sitting upstairs alone for another silent night was too much to bear. _Lonely,_ He thought, _It’s so unbearably lonely._

“I’ll be taking you back down here, Pete, don’t worry about that.” Tony said, “I’ll show you how to apply all of those theories you’ve memorized. It’ll be great.” When he looked up, his eyes observed him sharply. “I think you’re about ready to hit the hay.”

There was no use denying it, and Peter nodded through another thick yawn. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.” 

 

\--

The night in the lab had opened the floodgates. Once Tony had started talking to him, he didn’t seem to stop. Even when Peter didn’t have an answer, the man would simply talk aloud, seemingly content just to have someone else listen.

But Peter wasn’t exactly quiet, either. He was half starved of conversation. Without Ned he had absolutely no outlet, and for the first time all week he felt comfortable talking. For every one of Tony’s sentences, he had three more to give. He started going downstairs earlier, finished his food without as much prodding, and most importantly- started helping Tony out in the lab downstairs.

He felt so great, it made the steady stream of nightmares more tolerable. Adjusting, was what he considered it. The Willard incident was still very fresh, and he held onto the hope that after a while he’d stop waking up in a cold sweat, from feeling the burn of silver ghosting in his chest. Time was a healer of all wounds, all memories. 

Bonus- he’d only fallen down the floating staircase once. It was just the last ten stairs, and Tony had complained about having a small heart attack after watching him go down headfirst, but he’d scraped by without so much as a bruise. If anything, it helped him tackle his fear. He was less scared of falling now that it had actually happened, and instead of fueling healthy caution he felt more confident about flying down the spinning steps. 

And if that wasn’t good enough, he finally met Friday.

It had been by accident, mostly. Explosives were one of the many things Peter wasn’t allowed to work with, so when Tony worked on some of the more dangerous devices, he was tossed to a reluctant sideline. As a tinkering project, Peter had started working on a chemical neutralizer to hold enemies in place. A peaceful alternative to blowing them up, he explained to Tony. He’d imagined something sticky, but so far he’d only managed to create a gelatinous melting acid. 

Not exactly the peaceful option he was going for.

So far he was on experiment number fifteen, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t frustrated. It had taken a fair amount of convincing on his part to be able to use the chemicals without direct supervision, since, he explained, Tony was always down in the lab with him anyway. He chewed his lip as he reviewed his notes on the concoction. The issue was that it was way too potent. Instead of gripping, it burned through everything it touched. 

Humming along to the lab soundtrack, Peter measured out the latest mix of chemicals. His next move was to try something that expanded instead of directly attacking surfaces. It would either balance out, or he'd make a very big acid bubble. 

An overhead speaker flipped on, a female voice sounding above them. “ _Boss._ ”

Tony’s head shot up, and he was suddenly next to him. “Shit, wait- _Don’t._ ” He said quickly, and he caught Peter’s wrist just before he finished tipping the contents. 

“Oh-” Peter blinked. Tony had cleared across the room faster than he could process.

Tony turned the beaker so he could read the label, and both of his eyebrows raised. “ _This_ reaction will spill right over the glass and onto your hands, which are _gloveless_ , by the way. Ever heard of chemical burns?”

The newfound sass burrowed deep in Peter’s soul squirmed. It was hard not to point out Tony’s lack of goggles, gloves, and other protective wear. “Sorry.” Peter said. Tony was technically right, the reaction probably would have been too much for the glass, but he hadn’t been thinking. Under Tony's scrutiny, he pulled open a drawer and wormed his fingers into a pair of thick gloves. He wiggled his fingers thoughtfully. “If I’d melted my hands off, would they grow back?”

“Let’s not find out. Next time you’re unsure about you’re doing, ask me or Friday. ”

There it was. That name, that voice from before. He'd started to think Friday was either a weird metaphor or a clever, absurdly obscure euphemism. “Mr. Stark? Who exactly _is_ Friday?”

Tony looked at him in surprise, which quickly turned to irritation as he cast a heady gaze to the ceiling. “You been shy or something, Friday? Didn’t even introduce yourself?”

“ _Mr. Parker was not added to the system’s list of approved personnel,_ ” A female voice sounded again, and if Peter didn’t know any better he’d swear she sounded defensive, “ _Conversational restrictions were in place due to security reasons._ ”

“Rude. Amend that.”

“That’s-” Peter pointed to the ceiling, “Is that an AI?” If so, that was single handedly the coolest thing he had ever seen, and he suddenly understood why the mysterious voice was able to tattle on him for things Tony should not have been able to find out about.

“Pete, meet Friday.” Tony rubbed his goatee sheepishly, “Whom you should have met several, _several_ days ago, but we won’t think about it. She’s in a testing phase, giving my older AI, Jarvis, a much needed break for some reprogramming.”

“ _It’s nice to meet you Peter_.” Friday said, and the words were unusually warm for a computer.

“...You too.” Peter said sincerely, but he tapped his fingers on the counter. With an intelligent AI system, he wondered if sneaking out of the penthouse was even an option anymore.

-

Peter got so wrapped up in the work over the next week he forgot to check for his sun sensitivity, the soothing shimmer of night lights in the city becoming routine. He’d tucked his study notebook back in his side drawer at some point, but hadn’t taken it back out since.

He was too tired helping out in the lab to do much studying, and in the wake of working on the legendary Iron Man armor, he forgot about Midtown completely.

Still, he was constantly reminded that he wasn’t normal anymore. Whenever he got too comfortable, something happened to remind him of why he was in the penthouse. He’d get another aching pain in his stomach, or his fangs would accidentally cut his lips when he chewed on them in habit.

One night he watched Tony literally _fold_ a sheet of metal in half, crumpling it into a small wad before tossing it in the bin like it was nothing.

Peter had also put more holes in the drywall than he cared to count. So far Tony was a good sport about it, and each new indent caused by a careless elbow or accidental trip was quietly patched up within a day or so. The only thing that hadn't been fixed yet was an unfortunate crack in one of the marble counters, which he'd gripped in a panic after slipping on the floor.

All in all he and Tony were getting along swimmingly. Sharing an interest was doing wonders, and it extended to more than just science and engineering. On more than one occasion they sparked up interesting, if not wholly random debates on everything from politics to vegetables. Their analysis on War & Peace was one of their most heated.

It had started innocently enough. They’d settled down for dinner that night- or breakfast, depending on who you were asking. The mundane ice breaker of what they’d both read last wildly snowballed into a full on discussion, and Tony was visibly at the end of his rope.

“But Tolstoy emphasized irrational behavior,” Peter insisted, “It’s supposed to be about accepting that people make decisions that are inherently weird, and real wisdom will come from understanding that.”

Tony tapped his fork on the table with feigned patience. “Without order there’s chaos. Society is built up of trillions of cause and effect chains that are too small to be accurately analyzed, and without guiding principles there’s no sense to it.”

“But those principles can be flawed too.”

Tony sat back in his chair, his expression reluctantly amused. He tried to change the subject. “I’m arguing with a middle schooler about War and Peace. How about that one popular book instead- You read Twilight?”

“You don’t like it because Tolstoy valued spirituality over logic, that’s what it is-”

“I’ll _buy_ you Twilight. I’d rather have philosophical discussions over team Edward versus Jacob than the overarching progression of Tolstoy’s cynicism towards rational leaders. That and Twilight will make you grateful for a great many things- like how we don’t sparkle.”

Peter grinned like he’d won. “Friday?”

“ _Philosophy will always be a debatable subject_.” She hedged.

Peter’s triumphant crow was enough to get him sent back to his room, and the next day when he went downstairs, he found a copy of Twilight laying on the kitchen counter. Both the paperback and hardcover of ‘War and Peace’ were suspiciously missing from the office library.

A victory, if there ever was one. He was treading water.

But all of those happy moments were stained by darker, more traumatic forces. The nightmares didn’t let up. They plagued him every time he went to sleep, without fail. The circumstances of the dream never changed, either. They stayed exactly the same, but it still instilled a deep rooted terror, a wild and uncontrollable panic.

He would wake up in Willard, a vicious storm pounding against the windows, rattling them hard enough to crack the glass. The center insignia would yawn, a gaping hole of evil. And then pain, horrible pain-

-

Peter shot out of bed, covered in sweat. His breathing was heavy, ragged. 

The world spun as he wrestled with the covers, dragging up the hem of his shirt. He ran trembling fingers across his skin, searching, scanning for any trace of silver. When he found none he tore through the sheets, looking for blood.

He’d been bleeding, he was certain of it. It had been pouring out of his chest, and his head felt like it was swimming on the verge of a blackout from the blood loss. His fingers already felt numb, ice cold. But he couldn’t find any, not a single stain on the crisp white sheets.

The thick smell of old must and the howl of the storm’s wind still echoed in his eardrums as he stumbled out of the bed. Willard, with lurking shadows and bodiless eyes that watched him with foul intent. His spine tingled, instincts screaming that he was in danger, that he was being chased by something dark and unfathomable. 

Crashing into the bathroom, Peter turned the sink on, splashing water on his face, his neck. The panic didn’t stop, and his skin suddenly felt hot, too hot. He was burning up, his insides like a furnace.

He went into the shower, not even taking off his clothes before he turned the cold water on in full force. He set it to the lowest temperature, his whole body shaking as the icy water pummeled against his back, soaking through his shirt and pants and wrapping him in a blessedly frigid cocoon.

Peter wasn’t sure how long he stood under the water, but his whole body felt numb when he finally stepped out, trembling uncontrollably. His fingers fumbled as he stripped out of his sopping, heavy sweats, the skin of his hands frighteningly white. The water jets had likely flayed his back, but he couldn’t feel the pain if there was any.

His hair was still wet when he pulled on a dry pair of clothes, slinking out of his room and downstairs. He left a faint wet trail behind him, shimmering against the black granite. It was likely daytime, the windows dark and chandelier bright and glittering. His whole body felt exhausted, like he’d just run a marathon, but there was no way he’d be able to go back to sleep.

With any luck, he could make a warm cup of something and escape back to his room without causing a fuss. His discovery of hot water a long while before had opened up a whole new world of comfort drinks. Maybe he'd even grab a book to help keep him awake. He'd stubbornly refused to read Twilight out of spite, but a mindless and cheesy novel didn't sound too bad at the moment. He'd swipe it off the counter and vanish just as quickly.

What he failed to account for was his famous lucky streak, which was to say he had none whatsoever. So, of course, Tony's fresh scent reached his nose. Diesel, aftershave, and a faint trace of smoke from when they'd been cleaning the first few Mark suits a while earlier. So much for escaping unnoticed- The man was awake.

Peter’s heart fell even further when he saw him standing in the kitchen.

He looked put together, donning a classy suit instead of the casual attire he wore around the penthouse. The crisp black made him look sharp, confident. He'd showered, and his hair was tamed, expression hidden behind a pair of trademark sunglasses. He looked like another piece of the penthouse, proud and expensive. 

“Up early today.” Tony commented idly, back to him. He was tapping on his phone distractedly. Only Stark would be able to wear dark glasses indoors and make it work, though it likely had more to do with his keen eyesight than a punishing fashion statement.

When he turned to see Peter, though, they immediately came off, his eyes going wide. Peter could imagine what he looked like. He was still shivering uncontrollably, eyes red, skin white as a ghost, wet hair plastered against him. Death warmed over, no matter how you looked at it. 

“Jesus, _fuck-!_ ” Tony erupted in shock, words half strangled.

“I had a bad dream.” Peter tried to explain through his chattering teeth, but he was already being half dragged over to the living room fireplace, which blew to life after a sharp command to Friday.

“I thought we talked about there being hot water-” Tony hissed, setting him down directly in front of the flames. He yanked a throw blanket from the couch, wrapping it around Peter’s shivering figure, aggressively rubbing his arms to create friction. His hold was strong, like if held him still enough he could prevent him from shaking altogether. “No more of that monk bullshit. You don’t have to take ice baths anymore-”

“I know. I had a bad dream,” Peter repeated through his teeth. Already he could feel the heat of the fire seep into his skin, almost painful. “I just needed to cool down.”

“You succeeded.” The words were sharp, dry. “You look like a drowned cat.”

Peter looked at Tony’s suit again, and he leaned forward curiously. He could smell the expensive linen of the suit, but underneath that he detected faint traces of other scents. Maybe other people? One of them stood out among the rest, a pleasing trace of feminine perfume.

“Did you go out?” He felt a pang of jealousy at the thought. 

“I did. A bunch of board meetings that I wish I could have skipped.” A minute of silence passed, and Tony seemed to calm down considerably as Peter slowly stopped shivering. “Pepper wouldn’t let me back out of them,” He continued, “Though I think she makes me show up more to intimidate the puffier board members than actually work.”

The name Pepper he recognized. An image of Pepper Potts, the infamous CEO of the company came to mind, a flash of red hair and all business. He wondered if that was the source of the perfume. “Can you take me next time?” The idea of meeting the famous Ms. Potts was almost too much to bear. He already suspected the answer, but his heart fell anyway as Tony shook his head.

“Not yet. You’ve got a ways to go, Frosty.” Following the train of thought, Tony’s eyes met his. “Did you want to try-”

“No.” Peter immediately interrupted. He knew what he was asking. “...No.”

The answer sparked a frustrated flash of red in Tony’s irises, his mouth drawing in a tight line. He kept quiet though, and Peter bristled when he realized that Tony expected him to cave at some inevitable point. Maybe not now, but soon. The thought fueled Peter’s resolve, stubbornness pushing him to remain steadfast in his decision. He wouldn’t drink blood. Not again, not ever.

“Have you been getting a lot of these bad dreams?” Tony asked after a few moments. His gaze studied the dark smudges under Peter’s eyes, already discerning the answer from the exhausted lines on his face. 

“No.” Peter lied, surprising himself. Why was he lying?

“...Really.”

“I’ve just been tired.” 

Tony was unimpressed, and he looked down at him impassively. “...You’re not very good at fibbing, kid. Which is good news for me. Why don’t we chat?”

About Willard? No, no he didn't want to talk about the library at all. The fireplace was suddenly very interesting, and Peter studied the flame, soaking in the warmth as he slowly shook his head. “I’m fine, seriously.” Talking about the gaping, horrifying maw that was centered in the Willard library was an even scarier thought. Like if he said it out loud, it would make it real.

Emotions were clearly not Tony’s forte, and he hesitantly drew back. “I’m here if you need me.” His tone implied that he wasn't going to completely let it go.

Peter nodded. He should have stayed in his room instead of wandering downstairs. That or made a U turn once he'd picked up Tony's scent. He’d stopped shivering, and he shuffled back against the side of one of the living room chairs, staying adjacent to the fireplace’s warmth. Already he felt better. “Can I cash that token in now?”

Tony stood up, regarding him suspiciously as he tucked his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Depends, but sure.”

“A mug of hot chocolate?”

An unsure part of Peter feared the answer. He generally only took what was offered, sneaking just about everything else. In Stockwell, it was take or get taken from. If he’d asked any of the Stockwell employees, much less Ms. Grayne to get him a cup of even cold water, he’d have been smacked on the back of the head and punished for just having the audacity to ask.

But Tony only grinned, his shoulders loosening. “Sure thing, kid.” 

Something warm sparked to life in Peter’s chest as he watched Tony dutifully walk to the kitchen. But it was short lived as his gaze moved to look back at the fireplace. There, in the sweet spot between the fire pit and the massive television, was a small display showing the month, day, and time.

His heart fell to the floor when he read the date.

He’d missed the entrance exam to Midtown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was ridiculously hard.
> 
> What's pacing, what's plot, how are fundamental relationships established, who knows- I sure don't


End file.
